


as day follows night

by The_Eclectic_Bookworm



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, faith has a crush on buffy but it's not the Focus so i'm not tagging it just yet, the cat's out of the bag so let's update the tags!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 84,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21982549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Eclectic_Bookworm/pseuds/The_Eclectic_Bookworm
Summary: Looking for a safe place to stay after her accidental murder of the Deputy Mayor, Faith Lehane allies herself with a mysteriously powerful witch—and stumbles into a fairytale mystery that's bigger than anything she could have anticipated.
Relationships: Faith Lehane/Buffy Summers, Jenny Calendar & Faith Lehane, Jenny Calendar/Rupert Giles
Comments: 298
Kudos: 219





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JackalopingIntoTheVoid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackalopingIntoTheVoid/gifts).



> i decided like three chapters into writing this thing that i would gift it to my dear beta reader jack, because she was and is an INSTRUMENTAL part of this fic being as good as it is. jack, there's so much positivity i wanna throw you right now but i just texted you a long message where i cried a lot about this fic. you're an amazing friend and you make me wanna be the best writer i can be. i love you so much.
> 
> as this fic goes on, tags will be added, but: a preliminary trigger warning for violence + two pretty overtly suicidal characters. i'll make sure to add a note in chapters where these themes are prevalent, but it's a pretty big part of the story, so i'm also adding one here.

_Our story begins with a valiant knight, struck down in battle—_

* * *

“Hey, Giles?” said Faith, tossing the manuscript to the side.

“ _Do_ be careful with that,” said Giles reprovingly, moving to collect the aged parchment from where it had fluttered down to the floor. “These are very rare and very valuable—”

“—yeah, yeah, I know the drill,” said Faith, waving her hand dismissively. “I have a question.”

Giles looked off into the distance with that dramatic-as-fuck resignation in his eyes that meant that he was steeling himself for whatever it was Little Miss Trash Girl had to ask (Faith, very used to this expression on adults’ faces, had gotten pretty good at recognizing it), and then he said, “Yes, Faith?”

At that point, Faith didn’t feel a whole lot like disappointing him. “Are all of these just knockoff fairy tales?” she asked, putting her sneaker-clad feet up on the table. “Boring shit about knights and dragons? I could just watch a Disney movie if I wanted to read about random dudes in armor getting stabbed or whatever.”

“The knight is an _allegory,_ ” said Giles, now visibly exasperated. “Please get your feet off the table.”

“Hi, Giles!” sang out Buffy, breezing into the library to set her backpack down in the only clear spot on the table. “Whoa. What’s going on _here?_ I thought spring cleaning was, y’know, during the spring.”

“Prophecy day,” said Giles.

“Is that a thing?” said Buffy, frowning.

“A large abundance of old prophecies and texts are shipped over to me every month by the Council,” Giles explained to Buffy. Faith, who had already heard this before, picked up another manuscript and pretended to care about what it said. “Things that they think might have some relevance to us in coming days. My job is to sort through them, find the ones that are actually of use, and discard the ones that aren’t.”

“So what about this one?” Buffy inquired, peering over Giles’s shoulder at the manuscript he’d taken from Faith.

“I haven’t gotten a good look at it _just_ yet,” said Giles. “I _had_ asked Faith to look it over—”

“—but I got bored,” Faith finished, delighting in Buffy’s wryly amused little smile. “Sorry, G. Research just might not be my thing.”

“Ooh, let me!” Without waiting for Giles’s permission, Buffy tugged the manuscript out of his hands. “Whoa. Were all the important prophecies in the olden days trying to win a prize for ‘Most Ornate And Illegible Handwriting?’ Because this one should’ve won.”

“I mean, _I_ could read it,” said Faith casually.

Buffy squinted at the paper. “Nope,” she said, popping the P. “Can’t make a thing out. Here, Giles, throw that in the _too-scrawly-to-read_ pile.”

“There isn’t a specific _pile_ for that,” Giles protested, but he did put it in a growing stack of manuscripts after Buffy had turned away.

Curious, Faith got up from the table, wandering over to the pile in question. Though the handwriting was definitely a little fancier than it had to be, it was also _definitely_ legible. _Ornate and illegible_ weren’t words Faith would personally use to describe it. “You guys _sure_ you can’t read it?” she said.

“You sure you _can?”_ said Buffy doubtfully.

Faith squinted again at the manuscript. “Whatever,” she said. Sunnydale was just _like that_ sometimes. Weird shit happened and you had to roll with the punches. “Hey, B, we’re still on for patrol tonight, right?”

“When are we not?” Now with _her_ feet propped up on the table, Buffy grinned cheerfully up at Faith. Giles pointedly tapped her boots, and Buffy obliged, pulling herself into a more polite sitting position. “I mean, I still have some homework to do during my free period—”

“Isn’t that now?” said Giles.

“Eh,” said Buffy. “It’s English. I speak English. I can take my time.”

Giles gave Buffy a Look.

 _“Fine,”_ said Buffy, pulling out her backpack. “But can you at _least_ clear a space for me on the table?”

As Buffy and Giles went back to whatever the fuck they usually did, Faith went back to what _she’d_ been doing a lot lately: feeling weird, and sad, and out of place. Everyone here seemed so happy and cozy and _okay_ in their lives—Giles with his books, Buffy with her warm house, hell, even Xander with the friends that would throw down to protect him. It had been a few weeks since she’d arrived in Sunnydale, and Faith still didn’t know where—or _how—_ she fit into this whole Vampire Slayer equation.

She’d always been the One Girl In All The World, back in Boston—the one her Watcher had fussed over, the one everyone had said was _strong_ and _powerful_ and _street-savvy_ in a way that would keep her alive longer than most Slayers. She’d gotten used to being the One Girl in all aspects of her life. Now, though, she was playing second fiddle to the prettiest, smartest, kindest, most talented girl in the world—and while Faith liked Buffy so much it was hard to _breathe_ sometimes, it still didn’t do wonders for her ego.

Jealousy burned hot in Faith, sometimes, and it made her feel worse about everything. The One Girl In All The World was supposed to be _above_ that kind of crap.

 _You’re not the One Girl anymore,_ said a voice in the back of her head. With a frustrated huff of breath, Faith leaned back against the wall.

“You okay, Faith?” asked Buffy, giving her a worried look.

“Just all this dusty library bullshit,” said Faith reflexively.

“Well, thank you _very_ much,” said Giles.

Faith couldn’t feel all that bad about hurting Giles’s feelings—mostly because she didn’t think he cared about her enough for her accidental insult to stick. The guy was so clearly Buffy’s Watcher, and so clearly _not_ hers. “I should get going,” she said. “Got some stuff to do today.”

“Oh,” said Buffy. “Okay! Um, have a good day?”

Faith felt herself smile before she’d decided to do it. Fucked-up as Faith was, something about Buffy just…always made her smile. “Yeah, you too, B,” she said, and couldn’t help the way her voice softened. Picking up her bag from the floor, she slung it over her shoulder, sauntering out of the library with her best give-no-fucks stride.

* * *

Technically, Faith hadn’t _actually_ had anywhere to go. The only people she knew in Sunnydale were Buffy and her friends, and Sunnydale wasn’t exactly the most exciting town to skip school in. She wandered down to the cemetery in the hopes of finding some vampires to kill, realized that it was the middle of the day, broke into a few crypts to see if she could find any nests, and didn’t really find anything at all. It was a pretty boring day, and the fact that it was blue-skies sunny didn’t really help Faith’s mood. She was more of a night owl. Days weren’t really her thing.

She ended up going back to the motel and watching a lot of TV on the TV that only kind of worked. Around sunset, the audio cut out, so Faith started making up dialogue for the movie she was watching.

 _“I love you, Dan, but I love my best friend more. No, not John—”_ Faith pointed dramatically to the other woman on the screen. _“Her! We’re lesbians in love and we’re gonna ride off into the sunset and—”_ There was a banging on the door. “Shit, give me a _minute!”_ shouted Faith, and went back to her narration. _“We’re gonna ride off into the—”_

“Faith, it’s _patrol time!”_ said Buffy impatiently from the other side of the door. “You said you’d be ready!”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Faith jumped up from the bed, checked her hair in the mirror, reapplied a fresh coat of lipstick, checked her hair again—

“C’mon!” called Buffy. “What’s going on in there?”

“Sorry, B, I got totally trashed,” Faith called back. “Today was wild. Sucks that you missed it.” Throwing on her leather jacket, she ran a hand through her hair to give it a casually tousled look, then opened the door for Buffy. “Patrol time?”

“Patrol time,” Buffy confirmed, looking a mixture of exasperated and amused. “For someone who got totally trashed, you look pretty well-coiffed.”

“Aww, shucks,” said Faith, grinning sharply and hoping like _fuck_ she wasn’t revealing the butterflies in her stomach.

Buffy turned a little pink. “It’s not a compliment, I’m just—you know what, never mind. We should get going.”

Rolling her eyes a little, Faith stepped out of her room, shutting the door behind her and falling into step with Buffy. “You’ve got the weapons, right?”

In answer, Buffy hefted the large bag she was carrying. “Giles has to drive us to today’s cemetery,” she said.

“Isn’t, like, _everything_ in this town in walking distance?” said Faith, surprised.

“Well, yeah, but the path to this cemetery is on the witch’s turf,” said Buffy with a shrug.

“The witch?” Faith repeated.

Buffy blinked, turning to look at her. “You know about the witch,” she said. When Faith’s expression didn’t change, Buffy said with some surprise, “You _do_ know about the witch, right?”

“I mean, I know witches _exist,_ if that’s what you’re asking—”

“No, _the_ witch,” said Buffy, as though that clarified anything at all.

“So, like, one witch to rule them all?” quipped Faith.

“Yeah,” said Buffy seriously.

 _That_ took Faith by surprise. “Wait,” she said. “Really?”

“Can we talk about the witch _after_ patrol?” said Buffy with some frustration. “We kinda do have to kill some vampires at some point.”

“Okay, B, jeez,” said Faith, startled at the force of Buffy’s indignance. “I was mostly just a little distracted by how fuckin’ cryptic it sounds when you’re like, _the path to this cemetery is on the witch’s turf.”_

To Faith’s relief, Buffy cracked a smile at that. “That does sound kinda cryptic, doesn’t it?” she said. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem, I guess,” Faith replied with an awkward smile back. “Just so long as I get an explanation _eventually.”_

“And you definitely will,” Buffy agreed. “Totally. I guess I just forgot that you’re not native to Sunnydale, y’know? Anyone who’s been in Sunnydale and knows about the supernatural knows at least a _little_ bit about the witch.”

Faith was definitely more curious than she had any right to be, but Buffy was right: patrol was more important than a spooky ghost story. God, trying to be responsible sucked. “Okay,” she said, imbuing more resolve into her voice than she was actually feeling. “Patrol. Then you tell me _all_ about this witch.”

Buffy grinned, giving her a thumbs-up as they reached Giles’s shitty car.

* * *

Faith had promised not to ask any more questions, but she’d never promised not to make observations. As the car trundled through one of Sunnydale’s spookier districts, she noticed that the shadows seemed to close in around them, hugging the car and blurring the view through the windows. Pressing her nose up against the glass, Faith squinted, and thought she could make out a strange, huge building in the distance—

 _“Faith,”_ said Giles reprovingly from the driver’s seat. “Eyes away. Buffy, did you tell her _nothing_ of the witch?”

“I thought it wasn’t as important as patrol!” Buffy objected.

“It _isn’t_ as important as patrol,” said Giles, “but that’s only if we follow the protocol. We don’t look towards the witch, and the witch doesn’t look towards us. Remember?”

But Faith continued to scrunch up her face in an effort to see the building more clearly. Ramparts, towers, battered banners—if she didn’t know better, she might think that that was an entire fuckin’ _castle_ half-hidden in shadows and mist. “What _is_ that?” she mumbled.

“Nothing but shadows,” said Buffy flatly. “Look away, Faith.”

“I will if you tell me _why_ I need to,” said Faith stubbornly.

With a frustrated breath, Buffy tugged Faith away from the window, holding her in place so that they were face-to-face. This close, Faith smelled a floral-fruity smell that was definitely Buffy’s shampoo, and it distracted her enough not to object at her observations being interrupted. “Okay,” she said. “The witch showed up pretty recently. Totally decimated a nest of vamps downtown—”

“Sounds more like a good guy than a scary shadow lady to me,” said Faith doubtfully.

“I’m not finished,” said Buffy grimly. “The witch decimated a nest of vamps downtown by _blowing up an entire city block._ People’s homes were destroyed. A few people were even _killed._ We tried to face off with her, but she made it clear that that was only a demonstration: if we left her alone to do her thing in her castle, she’d leave us alone to do our thing in Sunnydale. If we went up against her—”

“She’d do worse,” Faith finished.

“It wasn’t a deal we were inclined to take, but the magnitude of her power…” Giles trailed off, sounding more rattled than Faith had ever heard him. “It’s inhuman,” he said. “I’ve only ever seen demons with that level of power, which likely means she’s tied herself up in some nasty business to acquire it.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that the witch is bad news,” said Buffy, “and we should count our blessings that she’s agreed to stay as uninvolved in Sunnydale as she has. She’s kept to her word. We need to make sure we keep to ours.”

“Okay, hold on,” said Faith, holding up a hand and moving (reluctantly) back from Buffy. “This sounds like some shady bullshit. Why would either of you agree to a deal like this? If she’s powerful enough to blow up an entire city block, what makes you so sure she’s trustworthy enough not to do it again while you two are _leaving her alone?”_

“She and Giles made some kinda weird vow thing,” said Buffy, pulling a face. “In blood. It was icky.”

“Icky,” Giles agreed, “but binding. So long as we adhere to our word, she’s forced to adhere to hers—and vice versa.”

“Gross,” said Faith. She’d had enough of blood pacts and blood-suckers and _blood_ to last a lifetime. Glancing one last time towards the shadows—which were fading away as the glow of the streetlights illuminated the road ahead—she turned back towards the front of the car, leaning back into the poor-quality seats. “Man, you need a new car.”

“I keep _telling_ him!” laughed Buffy, and Giles grumbled something about two Slayers being too _many_ Slayers, and things felt like they were getting a little bit back to normal. Weird, sure, but witches and manuscripts and old stone castles were par for the course in Sunnydale. You had to roll with the punches.

* * *

And speaking of punches—

 _“Shit!”_ Faith reeled back, hand pressed theatrically against her face. “That fuckin’ _stung!_ ” She pulled her hand away from her face, grinning. “Nah, I’m just kidding. Come at me, bro.” As the vampire lunged, she pulled her not-so-secret weapon out of her sleeve, neatly shish-kebabbing him on her stake. Watching his indignant face dissolve into dust, she felt that smug sense of power and control wash over her. One girl in the world or one girl of two, she still had a power that _no_ one could take away from her: fucking up vampires every night without breaking a sweat.

“Faith, quit showing off and _help_ me over here!” demanded Buffy through gritted teeth, wrestling the other vampire for control of her stake.

“Happy to oblige, m’lady,” said Faith (what the hell, she was on a medieval kick today), and vaulted over a tombstone to deliver a flying kick to the vampire’s face. The vampire pulled back, lunging for Faith instead of Buffy; this gave Buffy the opportunity to plunge her own stake into the vampire’s back. “ _Damn,_ B!” said Faith appreciatively. “We make a good team.”

“I don’t think that was ever in question,” said Giles, who was giving the both of them a small smile. “Well done, you two. I believe that’ll be all for tonight, if you’d both like to head home early?”

Faith didn’t particularly want to head _home_ early, largely because she didn’t have one. The motel was getting colder as winter came closer, and she still had to figure out what to do when the owner inevitably got sick of her half-assed seduction attempts in order to delay the money she owed him—that, or tried to follow through on what she was promising. Either way, sooner or later, she was kinda fucked, so she opened her mouth to say something about more patrolling being a _good_ thing sometimes—

“Home sounds _great,_ ” said Buffy blissfully. “I can’t wait to snuggle up in bed with some hot cocoa.”

“Or do homework,” said Giles, but there wasn’t much bite to the reprimand.

“Or do homework,” Buffy agreed with some reluctance.

With a barely-audible sigh, Faith followed them out of the cemetery, shoving her hands into her pockets and trying not to think about scratchy motel sheets.

Up ahead of her, Buffy’s hair caught the moonlight in its honey-blonde strands, making Faith’s heart soar awkwardly in that way it always seemed to around a pretty girl—and lately, around _Buffy_ in particular. She wasn’t stupid enough not to know what it meant, feeling like this—but she also wasn’t stupid enough to think that B, still so cut-up over her ex, would even look her way for more than half a drunken second.

Faith thought she could stick around until that second showed up. It wasn’t like she had much else better to do with her life, anyway.

* * *

_Our story begins with a valiant knight, struck down in battle for the sake of the kingdom he had sworn to protect. He died an honorable death, and those who had fought at his side grieved him as one would a brother or a father before lowering him into the ground. His story was one that ended sadly, but still one that ended naturally—one who lives a dangerous life will eventually find themselves on the wrong side of a monster’s bite or a sword’s sting._

_But there are those who are unhappy with those endings, authentic as they are. The knight was powerful in all regards—a scholar as well as a fighter—and if turned to the side of evil, he would be more than powerful enough to strike a heavy blow against the forces of life and light. Throughout his battles, a disciple of darkness had been biding her time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike—and his death was more than perfect. She had the chance to bring him back as a man reborn—a great warrior for the forces of evil._

_The disciple donned her magic cloak, called upon all the demons and monsters in the world, and brought back the knight anew._


	2. through the mist, through the woods

* * *

**Part One: The Beast, the Traveler, and the Little Red Rose**

* * *

Breathing heavily, Faith stared down at the body as it slowly sunk down into the water. Blood stained her hands, her pants, her shirt—everywhere. Everywhere around her, there was blood. She could go back to the motel and scrub all she wanted, but she didn’t think she’d ever really be free of—fuck. Of seeing the life drain out of that guy’s eyes. Of the way the stake sunk into his chest in a sick, fleshy way it had never done with vampires.

His eyes, his eyes, his glassy eyes—

Faith dry-heaved, pressing her hands to her mouth without thinking. She felt something wet and sticky around her face, and gasped, pulling her hands back—god, now it was on her _face._ How the hell was she supposed to walk back to the motel like this? What would happen if someone saw her like this? She had to clean herself up before someone saw her and started asking questions she couldn’t answer. She was gonna be in jail for life.

It was that thought that somehow snapped her back to reality. _Jail._ Jail was what happened to people who got caught, right? Jail was for bad people who did the shit that Faith had just done. Well—fuck that. Faith wasn’t gonna whimper and whine and cry over being a bad girl. She never had, and she never would. She’d always been bad. She’d always _be_ bad. This was the kind of shit bad girls did, and now wasn’t the time to be a scaredy-cat about it.

She wiped her hands on her pants (though it didn’t make much difference), watching the rippling water until it just looked like water again. She reminded herself that she was the kind of trash who killed people, and getting all blubbery about it wouldn’t change anything. What she needed to do now was figure out what the fuck she was going to do next.

 _Start small,_ she decided. She’d walk back to the motel, she’d clean herself up, and she’d start thinking about what the hell to tell the Scoobies—if she told them anything at all. She’d have to see what Buffy had told them. Maybe she could convince them that _Buffy_ did it. They’d forgive Buffy, she knew—that evil ex of Buffy’s had killed Giles’s _girlfriend,_ and Buffy still got to smooch him on the regular. And yeah, she _did_ know about that Jenny Calendar chick, even though no one had told her. Most of her knowledge had come from a pointed line of questioning directed at both Angel and Xander, which itself had come from Faith just being a nosy bitch in general. Had to be, since that stupid Scooby club never seemed to want to _tell her anything._

God. Buffy had probably already spilled the beans already. Faith might as well start building herself a coffin, because those white-hat Scoobies would probably wanna put her in the ground with the guy she’d killed. _In the water,_ her brain supplied, and she flinched involuntarily. Hugging her elbows to her chest, she began to walk away from the docks, refusing to look behind her. Bad girls didn’t look back. Bad girls didn’t need to.

 _I’m a bad bitch,_ she reminded herself. _I’m a murderer._

The darkness seemed to hug her close as she walked down the street, winding around her like a cloak or a cozy sweater. Faith had to squint to make out the streetlights in the distance, and with every step she took towards them, they seemed to dim. _Weird,_ she thought, with a sense of déjà vu. _Where have I seen this before?_ She remembered a night, months ago—Buffy’s hair, and a rare smile directed at her from Giles (even if it was mostly meant for Buffy), and—

And the witch.

With a horrible jolt to her stomach, Faith realized: this was the path Giles and Buffy had driven their car down so as not to disturb the witch. This was the tiny two-block walk that they’d told her fell under the jurisdiction of the baddest bitch in Sunnydale, and she’d put herself _right_ in the middle of it. The darkness was thick and inky black—not like the normal Sunnydale night—and when Faith stuck a shaking hand out in front of her, she could only see its faint outline.

God, it was so cold. It wasn’t supposed to be this cold. Suddenly, Faith didn’t feel as big or as bad as she usually did—she just felt small, and very much like the darkness might eat her alive. It was easy to slay vampires and demons and humans, but witches? That was a whole other ballpark. And this was a witch that scared even the _Scoobies—_

Wait a goddamn second. The _Scoobies._ Buffy and her crew were so scared of this witch that they didn’t so much as set foot in an area under her control, and they _definitely_ didn’t interfere with the shit she was doing on her own time. And sure, maybe Faith wasn’t bad enough to scare the Scoobies, but killing an innocent guy was definitely bad enough to at _least_ get this witch’s attention. If she could win over the witch and prove she was just as evil as any old spellcaster, she’d have a safe place to stay, free of things like jail and Buffy and washing blood out of her nice white shirt.

Well. Not really _safe._ Not if this witch was as bad as Buffy said. But Faith didn’t have any better options: there weren’t a lot of people willing to take in a wanted fugitive, after all. Some risks you just had to take.

“HEY,” she called into the darkness. “HEY, I’M BAD TOO! LET ME THROUGH!”

The darkness didn’t let up. Trying to remember that night, months ago, it came to her: the distant outline of a castle through the window of Giles’s car. Where had it been? Faith turned, slowly, on the spot, using every Slayer sense she had to try and figure out where the hell that castle might be. Darkness, darkness— _wait._

Faith squinted again, moving towards the place where the darkness had let up _just_ a little. As the inky blackness parted, it revealed a narrow, winding path, framed on either side by a thick, dark forest.

Yeah. _That_ hadn’t been there when Giles had been driving them down the normal suburban street. The forest looked eerie and _very_ much like it wanted to eat her alive, which made Faith even more convinced it was the right way to go. The world had turned upside down the moment her stake had sunk into that guy’s chest. All the safe things and good people were gonna land her in jail if she turned to them for help: the only things she could trust were the bad things—the ones you had to fight to prove yourself.

Squaring up, Faith took one step forward, then another, until she’d once again fallen into her give-no-fucks stride. As she stepped further into the forest, the soft buzz of Sunnydale at night faded away into a creepy, clearly-magical silence. Her feet didn’t crunch on leaves or twigs, the tree branches didn’t rustle in the breeze—

“Yeah, fuck this,” said Faith, and turned to go.

Except there was no Sunnydale in sight.

Faith stared. Feeling as though she must have lost track of _something,_ she turned around again—but from either side, all she could see was the cobblestone path extending into that same inky darkness. The trees flanked the path, closing her in, and _nowhere_ was there any sign of anything familiar. No dim streetlights, no sidewalks, no houses all in a row—

“BUFFY!” Faith shouted, giving in to the clawing panic in her chest. “BUFFY, PLEASE—” But Buffy was probably tucked up snug in bed, not even thinking about the guy’s life snuffed out like a candle. Buffy couldn’t hear her now. No one could.

 _This is what you wanted, isn’t it?_ That terrible voice in the back of her head always seemed to get louder when she was on her lonesome. _You’re the One Girl. You’re the Only Girl._

But it _wasn’t—_ it _hadn’t_ been what Faith had wanted. She’d wanted to be like _Buffy._ Hell, she’d wanted to be _with_ Buffy, side by side, hand tucked into Buffy’s the way Buffy’s hand tucked into Angel’s. Trapped in the middle of a path going nowhere, all alone save for the darkness around her—this had never been what Faith had wanted.

She stared ahead. She stared behind her. She couldn’t remember which way she’d been going.

“You know what?” she said, gritting her teeth, and turned to face the trees. _“Fuck_ this.”

And with that, Faith charged into the thicket.

* * *

The trees swallowed her up almost immediately, scratching at her face and arms, tearing her clothing until new blood was drawn. Pissed as hell, Faith fought back, hitting through branches and brambles until every part of her body ached. With her eyes squeezed tightly shut, she could almost pretend that the darkness wasn’t swallowing her up, that she _wasn’t_ going to die tonight, alone and forgotten—

Abruptly, a last branch gave way, and Faith tumbled flat on her face, hitting soft grass instead of hard, poky wood. She lay there for a second, shaking, before she slowly opened her eyes, pulling herself awkwardly up into a sitting position.

She was sitting in the middle of a grassy field, under a starless night sky. This time, the darkness around her _wasn’t_ magical or weird, it was just…kinda dark, the way it always was late at night. To her right, Faith saw the continuation of the path, this time leading out of an expansive forest that looked _way_ bigger than the entirety of Sunnydale. It led up a grassy hill, then towards a staircase that wound up and around what looked a little like a small mountain. Atop the rocks—Faith squinted, and then her eyes widened. That was the same silhouette she’d seen through the car window: a huge, spooky old castle.

God, Faith thought, rolling her eyes. This witch lady was dramatic as fuck. Pulling herself up, she dusted herself off, still wincing a little at the cuts and bruises she’d sustained from her tussle with the forest. Shivering in the chilly night air, she headed back over towards the winding path, this time gratified to notice that she _could_ see where she was going. Wherever she was now, it was a place with light enough to see by, and she _could_ hear the wind rustling through the trees.

Though the first path had been impossibly long, this one somehow felt longer: it was worse when Faith could _see_ where she was going and _know_ that it was still a long distance away. Reaching the staircase took her a good fifteen minutes, and by that point, she was starting to get really fucking bored with her little adventure. But she was also achy, tired, and pretty fucking miserable, and walking distracted her from having to think about what she’d have to return to back in Sunnydale—jail time, probably. Buffy’s disapproval, definitely. The Scoobies turning her away, absolutely—

Faith gritted her teeth, tears in her eyes, and pressed on.

The staircase was long too, which was to be expected; it did, after all, wind entirely around the fucking mountain. As Faith climbed higher, it got colder, and the lack of any railing or banister made her stomach turn whenever she looked down. One wrong step would send her falling off the face of the mountain, neck snapped—she clenched her fists tightly and kept going. She didn’t have anywhere to turn back to, and there was no fuckin’ _way_ she was just gonna lie down and die after fighting those trees. There was a castle up there, and there was a light in the window, and it would probably be warmer in there than it was out on the side of the mountain. She pressed on.

It took her over forty-five minutes to finish climbing the stairs. Reaching the top, Faith stepped forward onto a patch of grass, then collapsed flat on her back, staring up at the sky again. “ _Fuck. This. Shit,”_ she gasped, _very_ out of breath: the night had been extremely emotionally taxing even _without_ the whole fighting-trees and nonstop-hike stuff.

She probably had to get up, now: the castle wasn’t too far ahead. But her vision was beginning to blur, and the exhaustion of battling vampires, demons, and trees all in one day had finally started to catch up to her. Faith tried to pull herself up to a sitting position, _almost_ blacked out, and jumped up as fast as she could, attempting to shake off the exhaustion. “It’s right fuckin’ there,” she said through gritted teeth. “You’re gonna get yourself there if it _kills_ you, sister.” Clenching her fists until her nails dug into her palms, she continued forward.

The castle walls were high, but the big wooden doors that should’ve kept intruders out were standing wide open, revealing a dusty-looking courtyard full of a whole lot of nothing. Faith stepped through the doors, hurried through the courtyard, and made her way to another big wooden door. She pulled on it, found it locked, and pulled with full Slayer strength, breaking the door open.

The inside of the castle was lit with spooky candelabras on the walls, cobwebs in every corner. The candelabras didn’t do a whole lot to actually illuminate the room, which meant that Faith ended up tripping over a lot of stuff—an end table, another end table, a chair leg, and something weird and round that felt magical in nature—before finally reaching a soft-feeling surface. Sitting down and running her hands over it, she found that it was a _very_ comfortable-feeling couch, and let out a sigh of relief. Awkwardly, she shifted her position so that she was lying on her side. Though it was still kind of cold in the castle, it was cold in the same way the motel was cold, not in the way that being out on the side of a mountain was cold. Small improvements were still improvements, Faith thought, and she closed her eyes, finally succumbing to exhaustion.

* * *

A clatter woke Faith up. Jolting awake, it took her a moment to remember where she was, and another moment to scan the room—which, once poorly lit, now wasn’t lit at _all._ The same inky darkness obscuring the witch’s _turf_ in Sunnydale now surrounded her once again, but where the first darkness had been passive, this one sent a _chill_ down Faith’s spine. Something was in this room with her.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

The darkness vanished as quickly as it had come. A cool voice responded, “Bold of you, asking questions of the lady whose castle you’ve intruded upon. I think I’m entitled an answer before you: who are _you?”_

Standing directly in front of the couch was a woman in a hooded black cloak, the same inky color as that weird, magical darkness. Her face was in shadow, but Faith thought she could make out pursed lips that reminded her a little of Giles, or Gwen Post, or the Prof. “Shit,” she mumbled, rubbing the back of her head. “Is this just another Watcher trick? I’m kinda sick of those.”

 _“Who,”_ said the woman, a note of danger to her voice, “are you?”

Long tendrils of darkness began to spread out from the woman’s inky black cloak, moving slowly and deliberately towards Faith. “You can’t scare me!” she snapped. “I’ve killed a guy before, and I can kill you too! I’m Faith the Vampire Slayer, and I—”

Abruptly, the darkness dissolved into nothing. Violet eyes narrowed, the woman lowered her hood, long hair spilling free down her back. “Don’t lie to me,” she said shortly, and her eyes flashed with a color that reminded Faith a little of lightning. “I swore a blood oath with the Vampire Slayer present. I know you’re not her.”

“Uh, _duh,”_ said Faith, indignant. “I’m sure as shit not trying to say I’m Buffy. I’m the _other_ Vampire Slayer.”

“I’m sorry, do you think I’m an idiot?” said the woman shortly. “ _One girl in all the world,_ remember?”

“Buffy died one time, but her friend brought her back,” said Faith with frustration. “But since she was dead for a second, a new Slayer got called. Kendra. Then _Kendra_ died, for real, and _I_ got called. Happy?”

The woman’s face hadn’t changed. “Prove it,” she said.

“What?” said Faith.

 _“Prove_ that you’re the Vampire Slayer,” said the woman.

Faith lost her temper. Moving with lightning speed, she grabbed the woman by the neck, throwing her up against the wall. “Does this prove anything to you?” she snarled, digging her fingernails into the woman’s throat. “Or do you need—”

Magic coursed through Faith’s body, white-hot, as an invisible force picked her up off her feet, dragging her away from the woman and throwing her roughly to the floor. Landing _hard_ on a whole lot of cuts and bruises from the trees, she cried out, tears stinging her eyes. “Don’t you dare lay a hand on me,” said the woman coldly. “Maybe you _are_ who you say you are, but that doesn’t mean I have to care if you bleed.” Taking a few steps forward, she stood over Faith, looking down at her with some very real anger. “God only knows how you got past the wards—”

“I saw the castle,” said Faith, pulling herself back up to her feet.

The woman’s face changed. “What?”

“I saw the castle,” said Faith again. “Giles and Buffy were driving through some witch’s turf, and they were telling me not to fuck with her, and I saw a castle through that weird darkness shit you’ve got going on.”

The woman stared at her for a moment, a strange frown on her face. Chewing on her lip, she said, “My turf.”

“What?”

“You said _the witch’s turf,_ didn’t you?” said the woman. “Well, I’m the witch.”

Faith wasn’t too surprised by this. Violet eyes, spooky powers, dark-as-night magic cloak: if this lady hadn’t been the witch, Faith would have been pretty fuckin’ scared of the lady who was. “Cool,” she said. “Well, I’m Faith, and I’m evil like you, so I was thinking I could crash here for a little bit till I decide what I wanna do with my life.”

The witch stared at her. “You’re not serious,” she said. “There’s no way in hell I’m letting you stay here.”

“Kinda figured you’d say that,” said Faith. “Most people do. But here’s the thing: having a Vampire Slayer on your side could be really beneficial to whatever the fuck you do up here. You want a quick and easy murder? I’m your gal. You want a demon slice-and-diced? I’m at your beck and call. All I’m asking for here is…” She swallowed, a lump in her throat. “A place to stay. ‘Cause I head back to Sunnydale and I’m a dead girl walking.”

“That’s your problem,” said the witch with indifference. _“Not_ mine. Get out before I do something _worse_ than just throw you against the wall.”

“No,” said Faith levelly.

The witch gave her a Look. _“What_ was that?” she said.

“I said _no,_ ” said Faith, feeling a strange, terrible calm wash over her. “I’ve got nowhere else to go. Sunnydale’s got a whole lotta monsters that I can team up with, and I _could,_ but it took me long enough to get here. I think here’s where I’m supposed to be.”

“Do you not understand me, you fucking moron?” said the witch furiously. “I am going to _kill you.”_

“So do it,” said Faith with a sharp smile, looking up at the witch and hoping that the other woman could see the fire in her eyes. “I face death every day. I’ve never been afraid of it. From what I figure, it’s what I deserve—and I think I’m tired of running. Strike me down, witch bitch.”

It was a gamble, she knew, and not even a particularly smart one. If this witch was as dangerous as Giles and Buffy said, Faith was probably about to die for real. But the thing was, Faith _didn’t_ have anywhere to go back to. She didn’t even know the way back to where she wanted to be. What was the point of fighting her way back through the trees just to get shunned by the Scoobies and locked up in jail? Dying seemed better than _that._

The witch raised her hand, her dark cloak raising along with it. The cloak seemed to expand, this time, enveloping Faith in a darkness that felt _tight,_ this time around. _GET OUT,_ hissed a voice in her ears. _RUN AWAY, LITTLE GIRL, AND DON’T COME BACK._

“FUCK YOU,” Faith shouted back, but as she opened her mouth, she felt something steal the breath from her lungs. She made a desperate, wheezing noise, but she couldn’t seem to find any air—

“LET HER GO!” screamed the witch.

The darkness fell away. Gasping, Faith collapsed to the floor.

Furiously, the witch undid her cloak, throwing it _hard_ against the floor. She stood there, staring at Faith with those violent, violet eyes, and then she turned away, storming out of the room and down the hall.

Struggling to catch her breath, Faith pulled herself up again, now feeling dizziness on top of all the aches and pains. The witch’s cloak was still puddled a few feet away from her, and the way it shifted resentfully on the floor made Faith think that it wasn’t _just_ a cloak at all. She didn’t feel a whole lot like exploring that further, though, so she looked around, then decided that following the witch was probably the safest bet.

Well. Probably not _safest._ But maybe Faith would be able to find some kind of empty bedroom, and some clothes that _weren’t_ covered in blood. The witch seemed to have lost interest in her for now, and Faith was a good hider if it came to that.

The witch was gone from the hall, though Faith could hear footsteps stomping furiously up a nearby spiral staircase. She waited until the footsteps weren’t quite as loud, and then she snuck over to the staircase in question, creeping carefully up the steps with the skill of someone who had had to step lightly around angry parents as a kid. Upon reaching the first landing, she looked down the hallway: a door was ajar, and the witch was slipping inside.

Okay. Not that floor, then. Faith went up the stairs some more.

The next floor really was deserted, though the torches in the hall illuminated things much better than the paltry candelabras in the front room. Warily, Faith stepped onto the landing, then started trying doors, making sure to shut them once she had ascertained the room’s purpose. Library, indoor garden, weird witchy room with no clear purpose— _aha!_ Slipping through the doorway, Faith shut the door behind her, leaning heavily against it once she was done.

The bedroom was medieval-y in a Renaissance Fair kind of way, but it wasn’t all fluffy-princess bullshit; this room looked like it had belonged to someone cool, like a knight. Another open door revealed a small bathroom (modern-looking, thank _god),_ there was a mirror and wardrobe near the comfortable-looking bed, and a fire was crackling in the fireplace. The entire room was so, _so_ warm that it made Faith want to start crying right then and there. But she didn’t, _obviously,_ because she wasn’t the kind of person to cry in a _knight’s_ bedroom. Or anywhere, for that matter.

Moving towards the bathroom, Faith caught sight of herself in the mirror and drew in a sharp breath. This wasn’t the girl who had gone patrolling with Buffy that night. Her bloodstained clothes were badly ripped from the trees, she was covered in scratches and bruises from head to toe, and there were leaves and twigs stuck in her hair. She looked like she’d been in a fight and _lost._ She hadn’t seen herself this fucked up since—

 _Since I got my powers,_ she thought. With _every_ muscle in her body protesting, she carefully undressed, shoving the ruined clothing under the bed. Entering the bathroom, she found it fully stocked with shampoo, conditioner, soap, towels—and a _comb._

“Thank god for magic,” said Faith aloud. “If this was some normal medieval castle where I had to use a fuckin’ washtub, I’d lose my shit.” Carefully, she picked up the comb, doing her best to pick out the leaves and twigs before running it through her hair. It wasn’t the _best_ hair day she’d had, she thought, but it was still better than it _had_ been.

She ended up spending a good few hours taking a _long_ bath, soaking slowly until all the cuts and bruises began to hurt a little less. After that, she awkwardly wrapped herself in a towel, ran a hand through her hair, and headed back out to the bedroom, opening the doors to the wardrobe.

Medieval gowns. What _was_ it with this place?

“Listen up,” said Faith to the wardrobe. “Do you know what tank tops and jeans are? I’m gonna need some of those. Hell, maybe some sweats and a comfy T-shirt—and _definitely_ some underwear.” She closed the wardrobe, waited a second, hoped against hope that this castle was magic enough to understand her, and opened the doors again.

The wardrobe was now stocked with modern clothing, but it was all _terrible._ Blouses, pencil skirts, stockings—what was Faith, a middle-aged mom? _“No,”_ said Faith indignantly, shutting the doors. “Dude, see the clothes I took off? I want clothes like that! Except _not_ fucked up and bloody and stuff.”

This time, when she opened the wardrobe doors, the stuff she found was more like stuff that _Willow Rosenberg_ would wear. Dorky overalls, soft sweaters, and were those _fuzzy hats?_ “I have pride, man,” said Faith. “We’re not doing this shit. Listen, I am _too_ tired to handle this right now, and I _just_ wanna go to bed!”

And when she opened the wardrobe, she found an array of warm pajamas, fuzzy socks, sports bras, and clean underwear.

“Fair,” said Faith with relief, and picked out a set of green flannel pajamas. They felt dryer-warm against her skin, and when she got under the covers, she felt practically enveloped in cozy heat. This could work, she decided. She could just stay in this room, keep quiet, and maybe the witch wouldn’t notice her. All she needed was some rest and relaxation to recharge, and then tomorrow she could start working on food. Or—she glanced out the window, noticing that it was still night outside—since there was no _tomorrow_ here, exactly, she’d just have to settle for whenever she felt better again. That would probably be fine.

Closing her eyes, surrounded by warm, snuggly blankets for the first time in _years,_ the One Girl in All The Castle drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every time i let a chapter of this out into the world i'm like "AAAAH NO MY GOODNESS" because it's spent a month here with me? wild. anyway, this fic is gonna update weekly, but from the next chapter onwards, the updates are gonna be every friday bc that's the day i will arrive at home! looking forward to posting from a more comfortable place :D


	3. suave. genteel.

When Faith woke up again, it was still dark outside.

“It figures,” she said. Snuggling further under her blanket, she debated whether or not she actually wanted to get up all that much. Though the bath had helped a _lot,_ punching a whole bunch of magic tree branches apparently took a whole lot out of even a strong Vampire Slayer. That thought made her feel a _little_ better, though, because it meant that any normal person probably couldn’t have gotten past the witch’s wards at _all_ , which Faith thought could be a genius argument to convince the witch she was worth keeping around.

Obviously, however, she had no intention of seeking the witch out to plead her case anytime soon. Faith intended to live in the shadows full-time until she had a better understanding of what the fuck the witch’s deal was—

Her stomach _rumbled._ First order of business: figure out where the fuck the witch kept her _food._ It wouldn’t be too hard to steal some and sneak it up to her new safe haven, especially since she’d slept uninterrupted for long enough to feel completely rested. With some reluctance, Faith pulled herself out of bed, crossing the room to pull the wardrobe doors open.

 _This_ time, the wardrobe had gotten the memo. Faith pulled on a tank top and jeans, found a pair of sneakers tucked into a barely-noticeable compartment, and tied her hair up with an elastic from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Though cuts and bruises still covered her arms and face, she didn’t look _as_ fucked-up or terrible as she had the night before, which made her feel _kind_ of better. Food, she thought, would probably help the situation even more.

Opening the bedroom door just a crack, Faith first surveyed the hallway: empty and silent, with no sign of the witch or her weird cloak. Carefully, she slipped through the doorway, making sure to shut the door behind her. She stepped lightly and stealthily, kind of enjoying the strange mixture of terror and adrenaline that came with the thought of being caught by the witch. This, at least, was familiar: she was used to fearing for her life. She knew what it was like to live in unsafe places. She could do this.

As Faith headed down the stairs, she strained her Slayer hearing, making sure she was listening as best as she could for anything that might sound like a pissed-off witch heading up to finish the job she started. The castle, however, remained eerily silent, just as it had been before the witch had found Faith sprawled on the couch in the front room—and this time, when she reached the landing of the floor she’d seen the witch on previously, the room the witch had been stepping into stood with its door wide open. Nothing but darkness could be seen in the doorway.

More curious than wary, Faith stepped forward, doing her best to peer inside—

“I really wouldn’t recommend that,” said the witch from next to her.

Faith jumped back, stumbling over her feet and nearly falling flat on her back. _“Shit!”_ she gasped, heart pounding as she braced herself against the wall. “Fuck, I— _fuck,_ I—”

The witch was looking at Faith with a curiously furrowed brow. “I don’t—” She let out a frustrated breath. “You may be the Vampire Slayer, but you’re still young enough to be afraid,” she said. “You should have left when I threatened to kill you. I threw you down, I stole your breath, I showed you I’m not fucking around when I say I _could_ kill you without breaking a sweat. Why the hell are you still here?”

This didn’t seem like a lady who was going to kill Faith without talking to her a little more first. Faith could work with that. Waiting until her breathing had evened back out a little, she said simply, “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Plenty of people don’t have anywhere to go,” said the witch, frowning at Faith like she was a puzzle that needed solving. “They’d still choose life over death.”

“Lady, if you’re saying shit like that, then you _don’t_ know what it’s like to not have anywhere to go,” said Faith flatly. “Some people _say_ that they’ve got no one to count on, no one to go to, but they know in their hearts that they do.” Her thoughts went to Buffy, then, Buffy who always claimed to be so _lonely_ and so _lost,_ Buffy who was surrounded by friends at this very moment. “Me,” she said, her voice catching, “I’m not like that. I’ve got no one, and I know it. The only times I kid myself are when I say there are people I can trust.”

Something in the witch’s expression had changed.

“And you’re a bad bitch, right?” said Faith. “I know you’re not someone I can trust. I like that. I’d rather have someone who’s honest about what they think of me than a whole bunch of people pretending they love me.”

“Leave,” said the witch. Her voice sounded different, now, and the lightning shine to her eyes was completely gone.

“No,” said Faith simply. “I told you. I’d rather you kill me on the spot.”

The cloak around the witch’s shoulders hummed with a strange impatience, beginning to expand into an inky darkness. But just as Faith was starting to think she really _was_ going to die right then and there, the witch undid her cloak, letting it fall to the floor. She was still wearing a black dress under the cloak, but it was less medieval and more Morticia Addams. “You _can_ do better than staying here,” said the witch almost tiredly. “And I don’t want a roommate.”

“Listen, witch,” said Faith, “I’m not asking to be your best pal or anything. I’m just asking to stay in one of the _many_ rooms in your creepy castle, eat some food, and be left alone to do my own thing. I’ll do whatever it takes to convince you—”

“Stay out of my way,” said the witch.

“I will _not—_ ”

“You’re misunderstanding me,” said the witch. _“That’s_ what it’ll take to convince me. If you’re going to stay here, my magic will send food up to your room, you’re going to keep yourself away from _this_ room,” with a wave of her hand, the door to the room Faith had been trying to snoop on slammed shut, “and you’re going to stay _entirely_ out of my way.”

“Wait,” said Faith, a bewildered indignance washing over her. Never in a thousand years had she expected the witch to _agree_ to her proposal—and she was just now beginning to realize that a big part of her had _hoped_ the witch would strike her down on the spot. “Seriously?”

The witch smiled grimly, as if she knew _exactly_ what Faith was thinking. Damn, Faith thought. Maybe this woman was evil in a magic way _and_ a mind-games way. “Seriously,” she said. “But let me be clear: if you decide that you want to stay here, my magic will _keep_ you here for six weeks. I’m not in the habit of letting my secrets escape, and anyone staying here on a permanent basis will inevitably pick up on some things that need to stay hidden.”

“Whatever,” said Faith. “I already said I’ve got nothing to lose. Do I have to swear on the Unholy Bible, or—”

A strange chill ran up her spine, and though she couldn’t see it, she felt a tendril of _something_ wrap itself quietly and pointedly around her throat. “Your word alone is binding,” said the witch, eyes glowing lightning-bright just for a moment. “Your promise binds you to my castle for six weeks.”

And Faith _could_ feel it, then: the shivery, shifty feeling of magic tying her to this place. She’d chosen it, she knew, but it was still a little scary to know that she couldn’t back out now. In an effort to distract herself from what, in hindsight, kind of felt like a pretty stupid decision, she said, “But why six weeks?”

A shadow crossed the witch’s face. “By my calculations,” she said, “in six weeks, my secrets will be a moot point.”

“Evil plot,” said Faith immediately, giving the witch a thumbs-up. “Got it. Listen, do you have a first-aid kit? I’m covered in scrapes and bruises and stuff and I—”

With an extremely put-upon expression, the witch waved a hand. For a moment, every ache and pain in Faith’s body _flared_ to its worst possible extreme—and then, abruptly, all of it was _gone._ Looking down at her bare arms, Faith found her skin clear and unmarked, free of any kind of injury. “Wait,” she said. “What the _fuck_ —”

“Put on a fucking jacket,” said the witch. “It gets chilly in the castle, and I’m _not_ taking care of you if you catch a cold.” She stooped to pick up her cloak, pulling it again over her shoulders, and turned away, striding down the hall without looking back.

Faith watched her go, stunned. Logic said that the witch probably hadn’t wanted to hear her whine about her injuries, but instinct…was saying something else. There had been no need to _heal_ Faith. Bad bitches didn’t do shit like that. If someone had turned to her for help, and if she’d had the kind of magic power that the witch was able to use, Faith might have hurt that person _more_ just for laughs.

“Six weeks,” she repeated thoughtfully. If she was guaranteed to be stuck in this castle for that long—probably longer, considering that she didn’t have anywhere else to go after that—she _was_ probably going to figure at least a _little_ bit more out about the witch. It was only natural. Despite the witch’s claims that they’d never see each other at all during that time, they _were_ still living in the same building. Faith was sure to run into the witch at _some_ point or another.

* * *

Except she didn’t.

Since there was no sun to rise and set, Faith didn’t have any way to tell how much time passed—but she could still roughly estimate that three days in, she hadn’t seen a single sign of the witch. She’d stealthily explored the castle, she’d peeked through every doorway except the one the witch had told her not to, she’d found libraries and bedrooms and even a musty, dusty old kitchen, but not _once_ had she found the witch. It was like the witch knew what Faith was trying to do, and was actively being terrible about it. Which made sense, but that didn’t mean Faith had to _like_ it.

She spent most of the third day clattering resentfully around the hallways and being as loud as humanly possible. “LA LA LA LA LA,” she sang, banging a helmet she’d stolen from a suit of armor against the walls, “STAYING OUT OF THE WITCH’S WAY, LA LA LA LA LA,” but that didn’t seem to get the witch’s attention either. “LA LA LA—”

The helmet hit the wall a little too hard, bending in a weird direction.

 _“Ugh,_ ” said Faith with frustration, letting the helmet fall to the floor, then all but falling to the floor herself. Flat on her back in the middle of the hallway, she glared up at the ceiling: she was _bored out of her mind._ Staying with an evil witch wasn’t half as scary or dangerous as she thought it was: the biggest risk at the moment was her dying of boredom. She hadn’t seen another person in a solid three days, and all the castle had was books and dust. _Giles_ would have liked it here, she thought, but _she_ didn’t.

Thoughts of Giles brought back thoughts of Buffy, and _that_ brought back thoughts of blood on her hands. Suddenly, boredom felt a whole lot better than thinking about the reason she was in this castle in the first place. Picking up the helmet, Faith jumped back up, using her Slayer strength to force the metal into a less dented form. It took a good ten minutes to get the helmet back to its natural roundness, but the methodical work sufficiently distracted her from thoughts of Buffy and Sunnydale and the kind of person she knew she was.

Work might be a good idea, Faith thought. If the witch wasn’t going to pay attention to her, she was gonna have to do _something_ to occupy her time—and this castle was straight-up gross. Whether it was an attempt to create a spooky aesthetic or just the witch being too lazy to clean, Faith felt bizarrely grateful for it: at least it would be something for her to _do._ “Hey, castle,” she said loudly. “Do you have any cleaning supplies?”

The castle groaned disapprovingly.

“Huh,” said Faith, grinning sharply. “You don’t _wanna_ be cleaned, do you?”

The floor shuddered underneath her.

“Well,” said Faith, feeling instantly better. Having someone to antagonize—even if it was only a semi-sentient castle—made her feel a little more like _somebody_ was aware of the fact that she existed. “Fuck you. You’re getting cleaned.” With that, she yanked open the nearest door on a whim, stepping into one of the many stuffy libraries.

The place was old, dusty, gross, and probably hadn’t been aired out any time in the last century. Opening the curtains, Faith dislodged a _whole_ lot of dust; eyes streaming, she opened the windows as well to air the room out.

Almost _immediately,_ a serious breeze picked up, rushing through the room and blowing books and papers around. Old scraps of paper went flying, worn-out books were tossed around in the wind, and a stack of manuscripts were blown _directly_ out the window. “ _Shit!”_ gasped Faith, running forward to try and grab at some of the papers: this wasn’t at _all_ what she’d been trying to do. She tripped over a chair leg, somehow managing to knock even _more_ books flying. “Shit, shit, shit—”

“Fucking seriously?” said the witch from the door. “I ask you to do _one thing—”_

“I’ve stayed out of your way!” Faith objected. “I was in this library _first!_ And for the record, lady, you keep a _gross_ castle! Have you ever thought about cleaning this place up a little?”

“Okay,” said the witch. “First of all, you’ve been screaming down the halls for the last twenty minutes, and that is the exact opposite of _staying out of my way._ Second, this is _my castle._ I was in _every room_ first. Third, I have _never_ thought about cleaning up the castle, for fear of, oh, I don’t know, _damaging the books I keep in these libraries.”_ With a hand wave, the papers were put to rights, manuscripts flying back in through the open windows.

“You can clean shit up without damaging it,” said Faith stubbornly.

“Is there _ever_ going to be a point where you stop picking stupid fights?” said the witch irritably.

“Nope,” said Faith. “I’m not afraid of you, remember? Kinda a side benefit of not being afraid of stupid shit like death.”

The witch looked like she had some kind of a migraine. “Just—stay away from me,” she said, sounding more like Giles telling Faith to keep her feet off the table than a scary lady with the ability to magically punch Faith through a concrete wall. “Seriously. I don’t need this shit.”

“Listen, lady, I’m _bored._ ”

“How is that my problem?”

“Isn’t this your house?” Faith persisted. “Didn’t you say I could stay here? Last I heard, good manners mean making sure your guests have some actual shit to _do_ instead of being cooped up in a bedroom all day.”

The witch buried her face in her hands. Voice slightly muffled, she said, “You are the most annoying little pest I have ever had the displeasure of meeting.”

“Love you too,” said Faith with a winning smile. “So listen—”

Raising her head, the witch fixed Faith with a withering look. “What am I going to have to do to get you to _stop bothering me?”_ she said. “I haven’t gotten a moment’s respite since your arrival. My solitude is important to me, and I find it deeply frustrating that it isn’t respected.”

“I’m not a very respectful gal,” Faith countered, her smile sharpening. “Thought you kinda figured that one out.”

 _“Ugh!”_ said the witch, throwing up her hands in a surprisingly petulant gesture, and stalked out of the library.

Faith followed her, falling into step with the witch’s long, elegant strides. “So anyway,” she said, “you still haven’t answered my question.”

“You didn’t _ask_ me a question,” said the witch through gritted teeth.

“I’m bored.”

“That’s not a question.”

 _“Jeez,_ you’re a stickler for technicalities,” said Faith. “You know, I think there’s a guy you’d get along pretty well with? Librarian dude, not even slightly chill, stick shoved so far up his ass it could—”

“SHUT UP,” shouted the witch, her cloak flaring up and around her into a cloud of darkness.

But boredom had made Faith dangerously unafraid. “Nah,” she said, grinning up at the witch’s angry-lightning-flashy eyes. “I don’t think I will. See, the question I want you to answer is pretty important: is there anything around here I can do that _isn’t_ sitting around or reading books or trying to clean your castle?”

“IS _THAT_ WHAT YOU WERE TRYING TO DO?” demanded the cloud of darkness.

“Damn right it was, which is a _pretty_ solid piece of evidence to prove how fuckin’ _bored_ I am!” Faith countered indignantly. “I _hate_ cleaning! I like making big messes and leaving ‘em lying around for _other_ people to deal with. But you’ve got me _so_ bored here that cleaning is better than just lying around doing _nothing._ Like, is there anyone _else_ who lives here? Someone who’s _less_ boring than you?”

The witch yanked off her cloak, the cloud of darkness dissipating once again. “I AM _NOT_ BORING!” she shouted.

Faith blinked. Then, a little disbelieving, she started to laugh.

 _“WHAT?”_ demanded the witch, eyes flashing. “WHAT? STOP LAUGHING, IT ISN’T _FUNNY—”_

“You sound like a fuckin’ _toddler!”_ Faith wheezed. “How the fuck are you so pissed off about me calling you _boring?_ Shouldn’t some all-powerful witch have thicker skin than that?”

With a furious _screech,_ the witch turned on her heel, storming down the hall and away from Faith. She donned her cloak again in a dramatic _swoop_ as she walked, and it swung over her shoulder into its usual dark cloud, now looking more resentful than scary.

Unable to stop her laughter, Faith pressed her hands to her mouth, eyes streaming for a completely different reason. She hadn’t expected to get on the witch’s nerves so easily, but it had proven to be the _most_ fun she’d had in…god, how long? She definitely hadn’t laughed like this since _long_ before she’d shown up in Sunnydale. Falling back against the wall, she wiped her eyes, grinning exhaustedly up at the ceiling.

 _So,_ she thought. _Looks like I do have something to do after all._

* * *

“And for the _record,_ ” said the witch fiercely, yanking open Faith’s bedroom door a few hours later, “I’m pissed off because _you’re_ resorting to schoolyard taunts instead of being an actual adult regarding what’s _bothering_ you. If you wanted to ask me for something to do, then just _ask me!_ Don’t start insulting my entertainment value.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Faith, torn between indignance and amusement. “Have you been thinking about that all this time? I’ve moved on, sister. I’m eating a very nice dinner in a room that _isn’t_ a shitty motel or someone else’s house.”

“THIS LITERALLY IS SOMEONE ELSE’S HOUSE,” said the witch, her dark cloak flaring up again. “IT’S MY HOUSE.”

“You gotta get used to having a roommate,” said Faith conversationally. “I’m an equal partner in this castle, right? You’re keeping me here with magic, but it’s more ‘cause you wanna be careful, less ‘cause you really _want_ me here. Technically, I _can_ leave in six weeks, which makes me more of a roommate than a prisoner.”

The cloud of darkness at Faith’s door let out a muffled scream.

“And for the record,” Faith continued, “you’re _way_ less scary than you were when we first met. When are you gonna start throwing me up against walls and trying to kill me? Isn’t that kind of your thing?”

“I COULD IF I WANTED TO!” said the cloud of darkness. “I’M ADHERING TO OUR CONTRACT.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t toss me around,” said Faith, pulling herself up off of the bed and grinning sharply at the witch. “Maybe I’m your roommate, but that doesn’t mean you have to play nice. Don’t you wanna just squash me like a bug? Isn’t that what someone evil like you would _kill_ to do?”

And then something strange happened: the darkness went away. The witch took off her cloak again, holding it carefully against her chest and looking at Faith with eyes that suddenly seemed… _tired._ Without a word, she turned and left.

It took Faith a moment to process what had just happened. “Hey, wait!” she said, hopping up off the bed and following the witch out of the room. “What the hell was _that?_ Aren’t you gonna fight back?”

“Slayer,” said the witch, “I am getting legitimately sick of your death wish. You so _clearly_ want me to strike you down and kill you, and that’s not something I’m interested in doing.”

“…why not?” said Faith, feeling strangely insulted. “You’re this big bad witch, right? Don’t you kill a whole bunch of people all the time? Giles said you blew up an entire city block.”

“That was—” The witch _did_ look at Faith, then, hurt and indignant. “Never mind. Look, I just don’t feel like killing you, okay? And I _don’t_ appreciate your obvious attempts to try and _get_ me to kill you. It takes time out of—”

“Out of what?” Faith demanded, insulted. “You don’t do _anything_ in this castle. And for the record, I’m _not_ trying to get you to kill me—”

“Then what are you doing?” said the witch, crossing her arms and giving Faith a firmly pissed-off look right back. “What do you want from me?”

“I—”

“Tell me, Slayer,” said the witch. “I’ve got magic at my disposal. I can make and unmake the world any way I choose, if I so desire. You showed up here because your life in Sunnydale is missing something—well, what is it? Why do you think that I have it in my castle?”

The question hit Faith like a punch to the gut. Gaping like a fish, she struggled to find an answer, but the witch was already turning away again. “W-wait!” she called.

The witch looked back over her shoulder.

“I want—” Faith swallowed, hard, and realized what her answer was. “I want to _know_ what I want. Is _that_ enough of an answer for you?”

Slowly, the witch turned around all the way, facing Faith in the empty, torch-lit castle hall. She was looking at Faith with the same frustrated expression, but there was also a strange, sad understanding in her violet eyes. “Not really,” she said, “but I guess it’s as good of an answer as you’ll be able to give me right now. Listen, I…I know you’re bored. I understand that. But if you don’t know what you want from me, how can I give you whatever it is that you expect me to have?”

Now _that_ was a question Faith didn’t have an answer to. She shut her mouth, keeping her eyes on the witch’s.

“I value my solitude,” said the witch. “I don’t appreciate having it disturbed unnecessarily. If you have something that you want from me, I can’t promise I’ll give it to you, but I _can_ promise I’ll at least hear you out.” Her mouth twisted. “It’s better than hearing your cacophonous shrieking all down the halls of my castle.”

 _“Our_ castle,” Faith corrected.

“Mine first,” said the witch. “Don’t forget that.”

Faith hesitated. Then she said, “I’m still _really_ fuckin’ bored—”

“Then go _outside,_ ” said the witch with some exasperation.

“Wait. I can do that?”

“You didn’t _know that?”_ said the witch disbelievingly. “You said _yourself_ that you’re a roommate, not a prisoner—” She stopped, looking _livid._ “Have you been bored out of your mind and bothering me at every chance you get because you _thought you couldn’t go outside?”_

“You’re an evil witch!” Faith objected. “I didn’t want to push my luck!”

“You’ve _literally_ been trying to get me to kill you.”

“I haven’t been—” The witch gave Faith a Look. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’ve been trying a _little.”_

“A lot,” said the witch. “It’s deeply annoying. But just to be clear: as long as you don’t go into the forest again, you’re allowed to go as far outside as you’d like to go. Down the mountain, into the valley—hell, I’ll even throw a few monsters down there if you want to fight some things.”

“Seriously?” said Faith.

“Seriously,” said the witch.

“You’re supposed to be _evil,_ ” said Faith. “Isn’t all of this…kinda nice of you?”

“I will do literally anything if it means my castle is quiet again,” said the witch flatly, her cloak flaring up around her. “Don’t call me _nice_ if you know what’s good for you.”

“Got it,” said Faith seriously. “You’re secretly a total saint.”

“I’m going to flip you through a wall, Slayer,” said the witch.

“Fuckin’ _do it,”_ said Faith.

With another huff, the witch turned on her heel and left. Grinning, Faith headed back into her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was gonna post this when i got home but uh. i am impatient. anyway this chapter is dedicated to the wifi in this airport: thank u, airport wifi.


	4. well, if you hadn’t—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is one of those chapters where there definitely should be a warning for violence, as well as some relatively suicidal behavior/actions from faith.

“So you said I could fight, right?” said Faith, sticking her head down the hallway of the floor she usually saw the witch on. The witch was nowhere to be seen, but Faith had learned pretty quickly that that didn’t mean the witch couldn’t hear her. “I’m really raring to fight lately. Can you make me some monsters to kill?”

“I mean, you wouldn’t really be _killing_ them, per se,” said the witch from next to her. Faith jumped, lashing out; she wasn’t good at people sneaking up on her. Deftly stepping to the side, the witch continued, “They’d be artificial constructs instead of actual monsters—”

“Skip the theoreticals,” said Faith impatiently. “I don’t need to see the lady behind the curtain or whatever. Can you make me something to punch?”

The witch considered. “Not in the courtyard,” she said finally. “I don’t want them fucking up the cobblestones. Those take _work_ to maintain.”

“By _maintain_ do you mean _look dusty and gross?”_ said Faith solemnly. “Cause you’re doing a great job with that.”

“Just—if you’re gonna fight anything, it’s gonna be down in the valley,” said the witch firmly, already starting to walk away again. “And I’m not helping you with transportation up and down the mountain. Climb it yourself.”

“Love you too!” Faith called after her. “Can I go down now?”

“They’ll come out as soon as you’re down there,” the witch called back. “Take your time.”

“I’m going down now,” said Faith decisively. Heading back up the stairs to her room, she opened the wardrobe doors, pleased to find _exactly_ what she was looking for. Cozy jackets perfect for the chilly night air, warm winter boots designed for comfort _and_ fighting—hell, even a stylish little pair of gloves. Cordelia Chase would probably kill a man for this closet.

Faith’s stomach lurched at the thought of Sunnydale, and she suddenly felt a deep-seated desire to hit something until her knuckles bled. In her expert opinion, it was _definitely_ time to throw down with some monsters. _Anything_ to quiet the hints of…

God, how could she possibly describe it? She still didn’t know how long she’d actually been with the witch, but it apparently wasn’t long enough for her to stop thinking about what she’d left behind. She didn’t at all want to head back—she didn’t know what she’d end up with if she ever decided to face Buffy and the gang again. Anger, resentment, hell, even hatred—but whatever it was, Faith couldn’t imagine it being anything good.

Still, some terrible, lonely part of her almost _wanted_ that anger directed at her. It would feel more real than the perpetual night, the magic wardrobe, and the scarily overpowered witch who could kill Faith with a flourish of her definitely-not-normal cloak. Faith felt a little bit like she was living out some extended, weird-ass dream, and she kept on expecting to wake up in her shitty motel room, Buffy banging her door down with demands that Faith turn herself in to Giles or to the cops or to the people who could _help her._ And that _would_ be what Buffy would want, wouldn’t it? For someone to _help her—_

There was a _ripping_ sound, and when Faith looked down, she realized that she had torn the sleeve off of one of the winter jackets. The wardrobe creaked reprovingly. “Listen, man, I’m dealing with some shit,” snapped Faith. “You’re lucky you’re not splinters.” She shoved the jacket somewhat violently into the wardrobe, picked out another one, and slammed the doors shut, ignoring the wardrobe’s outraged rattling as she donned her jacket. Looking in the mirror, she no longer looked as downtrodden and pathetic as she had when she’d shown up: she looked well-fed, cheeks red and warm from the jacket and the ever-burning fire in her room. Her hair even seemed to have an extra luster to it—and all of this paled in comparison to the angry fire in her eyes.

“I’m a bad bitch,” Faith reminded herself, hating that dangerous girl in the mirror with all her heart. “I’m a murderer.”

* * *

It was dark outside when Faith, clad in a winter jacket and boots, headed down the mountain steps. Granted, this didn’t say a whole lot, considering that it was dark every fuckin’ second in the land around the weird little purgatory castle the witch called home, but it still felt worth noting. Faith was going out to fight, after all, and fighting was notoriously harder in the darkness. Anything could jump out, from any angle, and push her off the mountain.

It was the most alive Faith had felt since showing up at the castle. The safety had been fun for a few days, sure, but this kind of thing was much more her style. She didn’t want to get soft, after all—and being out in the dark, in danger, on unfamiliar terrain? That kind of thing was _sure_ to keep her Slayer senses sharp.

Going down the steps was _much_ easier than going up, and took a _much_ shorter amount of time. This time around, when Faith reached her destination, she didn’t feel at all exhausted by the journey—which was definitely for the best. The witch had said she’d set up some monsters for Faith to fight, after all, and that lady wasn’t fucking around in terms of dangerous bullshit. Whatever she had up her sleeve was probably _more_ than ready to kill Faith if given the chance.

It made Faith’s blood sing.

“HEY, MONSTERS,” she yelled. “IT’S A NICE, TASTY SLAYER, RIPE FOR EATING. OR FIGHTING. OR WHATEVER YOU FEEL LIKE. WANNA COME ON OUT?”

A rustle from the trees. Faith pulled out her crossbow and pointed it towards the sound.

Then, unexpectedly, something grabbed her from behind. Instinctively, Faith elbowed whatever-it-was as hard as she could. Its grip let up, and she wrestled herself free. Whirling to face her assailant, she saw a strange, faceless shadow-dude that reminded her a whole lot of the witch’s cloak. “Wow,” she said. “Not exactly imaginative, but at least you’re givin’ me something to work with. Maybe a few vamps, next time?”

The shadow guy lunged, mouth opening to reveal rows and rows of teeth. Its claws (it had _claws?!)_ scrabbled at Faith’s arms and stomach, tearing at her winter coat. Laughing with exhilaration, Faith fought back as hard as she could, landing a few hard blows before kicking the guy in the stomach. It fell back, hissing with malice, and she pushed it back onto the ground, straddling it as she held her crossbow to its face. “Nice try, buddy,” she said, and shot it. It dissolved. “It’s gonna take more than that to kill m—”

There was another rustle from the trees—a bigger one by _far—_ and then three other shadow guys descended upon Faith, weird shadowy claws extended. Raising her crossbow, Faith _beamed._

* * *

“HEY, WITCH,” Faith shouted when she came back into the castle, scraped up and cheerful from her fight with the shadow guys. “WITCH! HEY—”

“Just—stop,” said the witch from behind Faith.

Faith jumped, then lunged, again throwing a punch at the witch on instinct. Again, the witch nimbly side-stepped it. “Jesus, can you stop doing that?” Faith said, affronted. “I don’t like it when people sneak up on me!”

“Just to be clear,” said the witch, entirely ignoring Faith, “I gave you all those shadow guys to fight so you _wouldn’t_ antagonize me, and now you’re coming up here _begging_ for my attention? I really don’t appreciate that. Leave me alone.”

“What’s up with you?” said Faith, genuinely curious. “It’s like you don’t want a single thing to do with me.”

“Gosh, what gave you _that_ idea?” said the witch sarcastically, already beginning to walk away.

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Faith persisted. “You’re this big evil witch, right? Doing evil usually means you kind of _have_ to have _something_ to do with other people, but Buffy and Giles said you made a deal with them to leave Sunnydale alone. I’ve been here long enough that I _should’ve_ seen you do evil shit, but you _haven’t.”_

“Have you ever considered that none of this is actually any of your business?” said the witch coolly. “Maybe you should count your blessings that you _haven’t_ seen the things I’m capable of.”

“See, you talk the talk, but I still haven’t seen you walk the walk,” said Faith. “Nothing you’ve done yet has been _evil._ Grouchy as fuck, sure, but I’ve tried to strangle people when _they_ show up in _my_ house.”

“Didn’t you say you’re evil too?” countered the witch. “If it’s something you’ve done yourself, then it should probably count as evil.”

This was a frustratingly fair point. “…whatever,” said Faith. “You’re still dodging the question.”

“No, I’m just dodging _you,”_ said the witch. “Seeing as you showed up in my house and decided that you don’t want to leave.”

“Get a smaller house next time,” Faith advised. “If this had been a shitty one-bedroom apartment, I probably wouldn’t have wanted to stay. And you _haven’t_ distracted me just yet from the question I’m asking you: are you a good witch or a bad witch?”

“Cut it out, Dorothy,” said the witch flatly. “Good witches don’t throw little girls up against walls. If that isn’t enough evidence for you, I’m gonna have to come up with something a little more convincing.”

“Then do it,” said Faith, grinning up at her. “Convince me. ‘Cause right now, all you’ve done is opened your home, healed my injuries, and given me cool shit to do.”

“Wh—that’s—” The witch’s cloak flared up, inky and outraged. “YOU ANNOYED ME INTO IT!”

“Well, a _real_ bad bitch doesn’t cave to an annoying _little girl,_ ” Faith countered. _God,_ today was feeling good. A good tussle, a witch to piss off—she thought she could count the day as a real success. “And speaking of—this annoying little girl is hungry. Your spell’s got some good food waiting for me in my room, right?”

The darkness in the room was spreading. “DON’T PLAY WITH FIRE, SLAYER,” said that eerie, whispery voice. “YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU MIGHT EVOKE IN ME.”

“Whatever,” said Faith, and headed out of the room. Over her shoulder, she added, “Those shadow guys are gonna be there any time I wanna fight, right?”

“YES, THEY ARE,” said the voice. “TREAD CAREFULLY. THEY HUNGER FOR BLOOD.”

“I’m the _Vampire Slayer,”_ scoffed Faith. “I’ve got a _history_ of taking down bloodsuckers.” Ascending the stairs to her room, she found herself practically sauntering: once again, she’d managed to effectively annoy the witch. _She’d_ annoyed the baddest bitch in Sunnydale, and she was alive to tell the tale. Buffy had _nothing_ on her—

The thought of Buffy cut through her good mood like a hot knife through butter. Yet again, Faith found herself needing a distraction more than ever. On an impulse, and even though her muscles were crying out for a hot bath and a lie-down, she turned and headed back down the stairs, hurrying back into the front room.

The witch was still seething where Faith had left her. “I’m going out to fight again,” Faith informed her. “Make sure your shadow guys are there.”

“I AM NOT YOUR FUCKING SERVANT,” said the witch.

“Love you to-o-o,” sang out Faith, and headed out the door, thinking determinedly of the battle ahead. Shadow guys, she thought. Shadow guys with teeth and claws and eyeless, merciless faces. Not Buffy. Not Sunnydale. That wasn’t her life anymore, and it never would be again. This was all she needed: a safe place to rest her head between battles. Not friends. Not family. Not—

She stopped. A horde of shadow guys were standing in the courtyard, forming a half-circle around her and blocking her path to the mountain steps. “HEY, WITCH,” Faith called over her shoulder, “YOU FUCKED UP. THEY’RE SUPPOSED TO BE AT THE BOTTOM OF THE MOUNTAIN, NOT IN THE—”

One of the shadow guys let out a terrible screech, raising a broadsword up high. The others followed suit—wait, Faith thought, were they all _armed?—_ and _rushed_ Faith, swords and claws and teeth all slicing at her from every direction.

 _YOU WISHED FOR EVIL?_ The voice rang out through the courtyard. _HERE I AM._

And a sense of deep, profound relief washed over Faith: she’d done it. She’d finally tested the witch’s patience to the point where it wasn’t there anymore. The witch didn’t have time for an annoying little brat like her, and she was evil enough that she didn’t have to _make_ time for Faith. These shadow guys were going to kill Faith right then and there, and quite frankly, Faith couldn’t give less of a shit. She fought back—even if she knew how this was gonna go, she sure as hell wasn’t going to go down without putting up a fight—but they were too many, and sharp things were biting into her _hard_ from every angle, and god, was that _her_ blood on the floor? There was so _much_ of it—

* * *

Quick, rough hands pushed her hair away from her face. Someone picked up her arm, beginning to haphazardly wrap a bandage around it. “I _know,_ ” the witch’s voice was saying, as if from a distance. “I _know,_ okay? But this _wasn’t_ your call to make, this was _mine,_ and I’m saying you do _not_ get to do things like that. Did you even _listen_ to me when I said I didn’t want blood on the cobblestones?”

WE ARE AN EQUAL PARTNERSHIP, LADY WITCH, said the whispery voice. YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO MAKES DECISIONS HERE.

The bandage tightened almost violently around Faith’s arm, and Faith felt her arm all but dropped down to fall against the cobblestones. A shock of pain shot through it, and she had to stifle a gasp. “I don’t care,” snapped the witch. “We agreed that the Slayer fell under _my_ jurisdiction.”

SHE DISRESPECTS US, said the voice. SHE DISRESPECTED OUR POWER. WILL YOU STAND FOR THAT?

“Goddamn it, Umbra, do you _ever_ listen to a single thing I say?” the witch retorted. Faith’s other arm was picked up. “I _told_ you that she was entirely my responsibility, and you _agreed_ to that—which means you _don’t_ get to step in and do things like this on my behalf! You’re supposed to _adhere_ to the promises you make.”

I DID WHAT NEEDED TO BE DONE, said the voice. YOUR TIME IS NEARLY UP. DO YOU REALLY WISH FOR THIS GIRL TO JEOPARDIZE WHAT YOU HAVE WORKED SO HARD FOR?

“She’s a traumatized idiot,” said the witch coldly. The hands bandaging Faith’s other arm weren’t anything close to gentle. “She’s no threat to us.”

SHE WOULD NEVER BE A THREAT TO ME, said the voice. YOU, HOWEVER, ARE STILL AS WEAK AS YOU EVER WERE.

“Oooh, _scary,”_ said the witch irritably. The bandages now tied off, purposeful hands set Faith’s other arm down against the cobblestones. “You think you’re telling me anything _new?_ We’ve done this whole song-and-dance before.”

YOU ARE NOT HER SERVANT, said the voice. YOUR LIFE IS MINE, TO DO WITH AS I WISH. LET HER ORDER YOU ABOUT AGAIN AND THE CONSEQUENCES WILL BE WORSE.

The witch made a derisive noise. “I’ve given you _everything_ ,” she said. “What the hell do you think you can still take from me?”

I CAN SNUFF OUT THIS GIRL’S LIFE FOR GOOD.

“Cross me like that and I’ll kill you myself,” said the witch.

YOU AND I BOTH KNOW YOU WILL NEVER DISOBEY ME, said the voice. DO THAT, AND YOUR KNIGHT LIES STILL EVERMORE.

Faith couldn’t make out the witch’s response to that. The words and sounds around her were fading fast as her injuries began to catch up to her again, and with some relief, she succumbed to unconsciousness.

* * *

Faith woke up a few times after that, only catching disjointed flashes of the world around her. Cool hands splashed water onto her face. Someone spooned soup into her mouth. A blanket was tucked—surprisingly gently—around her. A hand tucked her hair behind her ear when it fell into her face. She wasn’t surrounded by the effortlessly comfortable warmth of her room in the castle, but wherever she was, it was still cozy enough in its own right.

When she finally managed to open her eyes all the way, she found herself in a room she didn’t recognize at _all._ It was a small, circular study, with lots of weird bookshelves, dusty knick-knacks, and a _huge_ crystal ball on a display stand in the middle of the room. Faith herself was in a strange, haphazard nest of pillows, lying next to a large, circular bay window that overlooked the courtyard, the mountain, and even the far-off valley below. She tried to pull herself up—

“Absolutely not,” said the witch, and Faith felt a firm hand on her shoulder, pushing her back down into the pillows. Sitting carefully down next to her, the witch pressed the back of her hand to Faith’s forehead. “Your fever’s dying down,” she said.

“I have a fever?” said Faith.

“Umbra was a dick about you wanting to fight again,” said the witch. “I think its monsters had some kind of toxin imbued into their claws or something.” Her cloak rustled angrily. “No, you know what?” said the witch to her cloak. “Shut up. You _are_ a dick.”

“Are you…talking to your cloak?” said Faith, rolling onto her side to get a better look at the witch.

The witch let out a small, frustrated breath. “Umbra’s where I get my power,” she said. “It’s pretty pissed off at you.”

“And you’re not?”

“Don’t push your luck,” said the witch. “Mostly I’m just pissed off that Umbra decided to act on something I specifically told it not to.”

“You could have let me die,” said Faith hesitantly. “Why didn’t you?”

“God, do you _ever_ stop bothering me?” said the witch somewhat acidly. “Roll back over and get some _sleep_ already. You’re _injured.”_

“I’ve been asleep long enough,” said Faith. “Why didn’t you just let me die?”

“Honestly?” said the witch. “Because I can tell you really, really, _really_ want to die, and it’s starting to really piss me off.”

Faith stared at her. “So you’re saving my life out of _spite?”_ she said slowly.

“Pretty much,” said the witch.

 _“Man,_ you’re cool,” said Faith, grinning up at her. “I could learn a thing or two from you.”

It was more of a mouth twitch than a smile, and the witch turned away almost immediately, but Faith could have sworn that something about her expression had softened for just a second. “Get some sleep,” the witch said. “I have no intention of dealing with your usual bullshit right now. There’s some stuff I have to do.”

“Like what?” said Faith. “Brooding? Moping? Yelling at your cloak?”

The cloak let out a rustling snicker. “Shut _up,_ ” said the witch to her cloak, flushing a dull shade of red. “Don’t you _dare_ side with her.”

“Your cloak’s pretty cool,” said Faith.

“It tried to _kill you,”_ said the witch disbelievingly.

“Yeah, well, _you_ won’t, so I’ll take what I can get,” said Faith, and sat up, grinning in the cloak’s direction. “Hey, Umbra. What’s shaking?”

I WILL GRIND YOUR BONES INTO DUST, said the cloak.

“Jesus Christ,” said the witch. “I hate both of you so much. Slayer, _lie down._ Umbra, the next time you threaten her, I’m going to take you out into the sunlight.”

YOU NEVER WOULD, LADY WITCH, said the cloak. YOUR KNIGHT—

 _“God,_ do you _ever_ stop making empty threats about that?” said the witch. “I know my rights. It doesn’t say _anywhere_ in the deal we struck that I’m not allowed to kill you.”

“Kill it,” said Faith, enthused.

“Lie the fuck back down before I _make_ you,” said the witch.

MAKE HER, said the cloak.

“See, _that_ guy I like,” said Faith. “Really respectful of my needs.”

The witch once again looked like she kind of wanted to punch Faith through a wall. She took off her cloak and set it aside, revealing yet _another_ clingy, long-sleeved, low-cut black dress. How many different black dresses did this lady _have?_ “I’m going to do some spellwork,” she said. “Both of you behave yourselves.”

YOU’RE NOT THE ONE IN CHARGE HERE, LADY WITCH.

“Yeah!” Faith agreed. _“Umbra’s_ the one in charge, _Lady Witch.”_

With a frustrated exhalation, the witch turned to the crystal ball, passing her hands over it. An image swam to the surface, and Faith’s stomach lurched: it was the Sunnydale High library, complete with the Scoobies all clustered cozily around the table. _“Ostenditis militi mihi,”_ muttered the witch, passing her hands over the ball again. The image shifted, zooming in on the group.

“Stop,” said Faith, her voice catching. “Please.”

The witch turned, looking honestly surprised. “What—”

“I can’t—” This injured, Faith couldn’t fight. She couldn’t punch until she bled, because she already _was_ bleeding—too much to distract herself with the usual tussle. “Please don’t make me look at that,” she said. “Just—I know you’re not gonna kill me, but please. Please just put me to sleep.”

The witch’s eyes flickered from her crystal ball to Faith and back again. Then she crossed the room, placing a hand on Faith’s cheek. _“Somnus,”_ she said, and the world faded away.

* * *

“Why don’t you want to look at them?” said the witch the next day. She’d woken Faith up to try and make Faith choke down some boring, flavorless vegetable soup, which (at least in Faith’s opinion) was more torturous than actual torture. Expressing this to the witch, however, had only gotten her an unsympathetic stare and a “fluids help your fever, Slayer,” so Faith had had to reluctantly give up on getting some KFC or something. She still wasn’t eating that shit, though.

“Why don’t I wanna look at who?” said Faith, not sure if she really liked this line of questioning.

“Them,” said the witch, jerking her head towards the crystal ball in the middle of the room. “The ones who fight for good. Why don’t you want to look at them?”

“Does _I’m evil_ answer your question?” said Faith waspishly.

The witch shook her head. “Whether you’re a good person or a bad one, it’s wise to keep tabs on the people you’re up against,” she said. “If it was as simple as you not being on their side, you wouldn’t have had such a strong reaction to seeing them in my crystal ball.”

“Y’know what?” said Faith. “Absolutely no one fuckin’ asked you. I’d rather eat the soup than answer that.”

The witch gave her a small, smug smile. “I guess now I know how to convince you to eat,” she said, taking another spoonful of soup and holding it in front of Faith’s mouth.

Indignantly, Faith pressed her lips tightly together.

“Oh, is this a hunger strike?” said the witch. “Tell you what—either you take another spoonful of this soup, or I go back over to that crystal ball and take a good, _long_ look at our friends in Sunnydale.”

“They’re _not_ my friends!” Faith objected—or tried to. What actually happened was that she opened her mouth to argue, found herself with a mouthful of soup, and choked on the spoon, spitting broth and overcooked vegetables all over the witch.

The witch reeled back. _“AACK!_ Oh my _god,_ you little _brat—”_

“What,” Faith coughed, “you think I’m doing this on _purpose?_ You fuckin’ _attacked_ me!”

“I’m trying to _get you better!”_

“Well, you _suck_ at it!”

 _“PURUS,”_ said the witch, sounding _very_ ready to kill Faith. The soup vanished into thin air, leaving the witch’s face and dress perfectly tidy. “What the _fuck_ will it take to get you to eat this soup?”

“Make it _taste better,”_ said Faith.

“Have you _never_ been sick in your _life?”_ the witch demanded. “This is the kind of self-care shit you have to _eat_ when you’re sick! I _know_ it doesn’t taste good, but it’s _good for you,_ and if I have to, I will make you so magically hungry that _anything_ will taste good, even this shitty, overcooked soup!”

“Don’t you make everything with magic?” Faith shot back. “How come this soup tastes _this_ bad?”

To her surprise, the witch didn’t immediately respond to this. After a good few moments of seething in silent antipathy, the witch finally snapped, “I made it myself, okay?”

“…what?” said Faith.

The witch’s cheeks had gone weirdly black, and it took Faith a moment to realize: she was _blushing_. “My magic is fueled by dark forces,” she said. “If I used it to create food, there was always a chance that the magic in the food might react badly to the magical poison in your body. I didn’t want to run the risk of—”

“Killing me,” Faith finished. Something oddly soft was unfurling in her chest. “Y’know, you’re putting a helluva lot of effort into keeping me alive.”

The witch pressed her lips together. “Umbra wants you dead,” she said. “I like being contrary.”

“Yeah, but there’s _contrary_ and then there’s _making me soup.”_

“Don’t fucking push it,” said the witch, shoving the bowl of soup in Faith’s direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the amount of people who are into this fic after only a few chapters? big :D. many thanks to everyone reading this, and even bigger thanks if you've left a review! you are making this writer's day.


	5. sweet and almost kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my laptop is refUSING to charge, so y'all are getting this chapter at 12am on the dot before this thing dies on me. do not fuss over my plight, tho: i'm gonna get it fixed & it will be back in commission before the weekend is up, & even if it's not, i've got this fic backed up on google docs. weekly updates bring everyone an inordinate amount of joy (myself included) and i intend to follow through!
> 
> DEFINITE warning for character(s) being textually suicidal in this chapter.

Apparently, all those times that Faith had looked for the witch and not found her, the witch had been in this weird, definitely-magical tower room, studying the black arts—at least according to the witch. From what Faith could tell, all the witch did was read old books, eat from a never-ending bag of peanut butter cups, and watch the Scoobies in her crystal ball, mumbling weird things about _militi mihi_. It was definitely _creepy,_ but it didn’t seem _evil,_ at least in Faith’s expert opinion.

“And I’m supposed to listen to you?” said the witch without looking away from the crystal ball. “I wouldn’t call _you_ evil. You just hate yourself so much that you’ve decided that you _are_ evil.”

“I didn’t come here to get psychoanalyzed by a creep who never goes outside,” said Faith, snuggling back into the pillows and watching the witch work. She hesitated, then said, “Can I have some more soup?”

“I’m heating it up,” said the witch, jerking her thumb towards the cauldron. “Do you feel a little less hot?”

“Man, I’m _always_ hot,” said Faith with a grin.

The witch gave Faith a deeply exasperated look. “Is your _fever_ breaking, smart-ass?”

“No fuckin’ clue,” said Faith. “What _are_ the Scoobies doing down in Sunnydale, anyway? You seem really into it.”

The witch didn’t answer that. Crossing the room, she sat down next to Faith among the pillows, resting the back of her hand against Faith’s forehead. A small, lonely part of Faith’s heart did a little hop-skip at the touch, even if it was more clinical than maternal. “You’re still a little warm,” she said absently. “Are you drinking water?”

“Not thirsty,” said Faith.

The witch gave Faith a look. “I’m not going to fucking fight you every time about this,” she said. “It’s not even _soup,_ Slayer—”

“Not _thirsty,_ ” said Faith. If she still wasn’t well enough to distract herself by picking fights with monsters for no reason, she’d sure as shit pick fights with the _witch_ for no reason—and not drinking water was usually the easiest way to piss the witch off. “Let me sleep.”

“Sit the fuck up and drink some water,” said the witch sharply, tugging hard at Faith’s shoulder with some definitely-magical strength. Faith, pulled into a sitting position, attempted to flop back down, but was held up by the witch. “My _god,_ Faith, how _old_ are you?”

“Sixteen, witch bitch,” said Faith, sticking her tongue out at the witch. “Still got two years before I gotta pretend to be all _adult—_ if I even make it two years after this.”

The witch did a double-take. In a very different tone of voice, she said, “Sixteen?”

“The fuck you lookin’ at me like that for?” Faith demanded, annoyed. “I’m sure not a grown-up, but I’m not some little kid!”

“Sixteen,” said the witch again, her cloak flaring up around her again—but this time, the darkness seemed to be curling _inward._ She removed a shaking hand from Faith’s shoulder, pulling back to stare at Faith. “You’re a kid,” she said. “You’re—you can’t possibly be only sixteen?”

“Seventeen in July,” said Faith, annoyance becoming genuine anger. “Stop looking at me like that. Why should you give a shit about how old I am?”

“I thought you were some baby-faced twenty-something,” said the witch. Umbra was closing in on her. “I’d never have—if I’d known—”

“You’d never have _what?”_ Faith demanded, infuriated. “Are you telling me you’d have tried to _mom_ me? Braided my hair and kissed my Band-Aids and shit? I must be in the wrong fuckin’ castle, sister, ‘cause I thought I was talking to an _evil witch—”_

The witch’s eyes _flashed,_ electric and angry, and Umbra’s cloud of darkness was violently discarded. Hair crackling with static energy, she pulled herself furiously out of the nest of pillows, looming over Faith with eyes that had gone _entirely_ white. “When will you _get over yourself?”_ she shrieked. “What is _wrong with you?_ You are _sixteen years old_ and even after getting _pummeled into the ground,_ it is _abundantly_ clear that you won’t stop annoying me until Umbra _ends your life for good!”_

“YEAH?” Faith shouted. “WELL, WHEN WILL YOU FUCKING KILL ME LIKE YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO?”

Abruptly, she heard the way those words sounded out loud. And it had been different when the _witch_ had said shit like that, talking about Faith’s death wish, talking about the way Faith pushed all her buttons—because someone else saying it still wasn’t the same thing as Faith finally admitting exactly why she had come to this castle in the first place. She hadn’t come here for a safe place to stay. She hadn’t come here because she wanted to be bad like the witch. She’d come here because—

“Kill me,” said Faith. Saying it out loud for the first time felt _right._ “Kill me. Please, please, I—I swear to god I won’t annoy you anymore when I’m dead, it’s all I want, just—”

DO IT, said Umbra, the discarded cloak rising from the floor and wrapping itself around the witch. DO IT. SHE WANTS YOU TO.

 _“Kill_ me,” said Faith, almost crying. “Fucking—you’re evil, you’re bad, you’re the only one who’s gonna do it the way I deserve—”

YOU HAVE THE POWER, said Umbra. STRIKE HER DOWN WHERE SHE LIES. KILL HER, LADY WITCH—

And the witch collapsed.

Faith stared, horrified, as Umbra enveloped the witch, who had curled into a wordless ball in the middle of the darkness. “No,” she said, but Umbra didn’t seem to hear her. It was growing, now, filling the room with that same inky blackness, and all of a sudden Faith’s fever and injuries felt less like an annoyance and more like a _legitimate hindrance._

USELESS, Umbra was saying. POINTLESS. WEAKER THAN ALL OF THOSE WHO HAVE SERVED ME. I WAS THE PATRON OF GREAT MAGICIANS—THOSE WHO WOULD USE MY POWERS TO ENHANCE THEIR OWN—AND YOU CANNOT EVEN KILL ONE GIRL? PATHETIC.

Faith sat up in the blackness, ignoring the way her head spun, and closed her eyes, calling upon every Slayer sense she’d honed in training with the shadow guys.

THEY HAVE FORGOTTEN ABOUT YOU, YOU KNOW, Umbra continued. WHY, THEN, DO YOU HOLD THEM IN SUCH REGARD? TURN YOUR BACK ON THEM. USE WHAT LITTLE TIME YOU HAVE LEFT TO MAKE YOUR DISGUSTING LIFE WORTH LIVING. KILL HER. KILL HER. KILL—

 _There._ The sounds of ragged breathing, only a small distance away from Faith. She shot out her hand and managed to latch onto the witch’s sleeve, holding on as hard as she could in the darkness. “I gotcha!” she shouted, and she felt the witch’s shaking hands on her shoulders, clinging to her like a lifeline. Faith grabbed the witch, hard, holding her tightly as Umbra continued to try and pull her away. “C’mon, dude,” Faith added, her raised voice hoarse and aching, “this shit is _not_ cool!”

LET GO OF HER, said Umbra. SHE’S MINE!

“Let go,” the witch whispered, sounding very different from the way Faith had heard her before. “It’s what Umbra wants. I need to—”

“FUCK YOU!” Faith shouted at the top of her lungs, and launched into a coughing fit.

And then—Faith heard a soft, half-laughing intake of breath, and the witch’s arms tightened around her in return. “Faith,” the witch murmured, and Faith realized with a small jolt that this was the first time the witch had used her first name. “Don’t exert your voice like that. Let me get you some tea.”

The darkness in the room began to dissipate, though Umbra’s anger lingered for a few seconds longer. Faith had to blink to readjust her eyes—even though the light in the tower room was still relatively dim—and when she did, she thought that the witch’s eyes looked less electric-scary than before. Without a word, she snuggled further into the witch’s arms, realizing that she was _definitely_ shaking.

“Faith?” said the witch.

Faith swallowed, hard, then pulled back a little bit from the witch, settling again into the pillows. She didn’t let go of the witch’s sleeve.

The witch waved a hand, conjuring up a mug of tea, and handed it to Faith. Without a word, Faith drank it, barely noticing the way the hot liquid burned her tongue. “Careful,” said the witch quietly, and reached out, stroking Faith’s hair with a still-shaking hand.

Faith swallowed again, staring at the cloak puddled on the floor. “Umbra—”

“Shh, shh, shh,” the witch murmured, taking the mug from Faith and gently pushing her back down into the pillows. “Get some sleep. I’ll deal with that jackass in a minute.”

“Don’t—” Faith grabbed at the witch’s sleeve again. “Please—it’s gonna—”

“I’ve known it a lot longer than you,” said the witch, “and it’s done a whole lot worse than that to me. Don’t worry about it, okay? Get some rest.”

“W-why—”

There was a strange unguardedness to the witch as she looked at Faith. Quietly, she said, “There’s not a whole lot you can do about Umbra’s power over me, and I need to make sure you understand that.”

“But—”

“Thank you for trying to help me,” said the witch, and the ghost of a smile flitted across her face. “It means more to me than I can say. I hope you now understand that I have no intention of killing you at _any_ point in time.” Her almost-smile faded into a stony sadness. “I’m sorry that I can’t give you what you came here looking for.”

Something about the witch—her misery, her fear, Umbra’s voice ringing through the room with accusations of _pathetic_ and _weak,_ reminded Faith very distinctly of that night at the docks. Suddenly, Faith was remembering what it had felt like with blood on her hands: the crawling, desperate feeling to wrap herself in evil like…

Her eyes flitted to the cloak puddled on the floor. Then she looked back towards the witch, a new comprehension rising in her. “Oh,” she said, and her grip tightened on the witch’s sleeve. “Well, _I’m_ sorry too, then, ‘cause _I’m_ not gonna let anything kill _you._ Even if that’s what _you_ want.”

The witch’s expression flickered. “What?”

“About that death wish,” said Faith. “I don’t think _I’m_ the only one in the room with one.”

The witch drew in a breath, trying to pull her sleeve away from Faith. Faith grabbed the witch’s wrist instead. “I’m going to get you some soup,” said the witch, her voice level—but Faith could feel her shaking.

“Listen,” said Faith. “I’m not exactly into the idea of living right now, but I’m _also_ not into the idea of leaving you as chow for your magic cloak. So here’s my deal: if you promise me you’re not gonna let Umbra win, I can promise you that I’m not gonna keep trying to get you to kill me. Okay?”

“Faith,” said the witch tiredly. “Umbra’s already won.”

“Not fuckin’ yet, it hasn’t,” said Faith. “Not until the both of us are dead. And you don’t look dead to me— _so.”_

There was still that sadness in the witch’s eyes—it never seemed to leave—but then a small, reluctant smile crossed her face. “I don’t think you’re going to let me get away until I agree, are you?” she said. “Fair enough. I’m not giving anything else to Umbra— _besides_ what I’ve agreed to give it—and you’re not going to try and push me into killing you.”

“Besides what you’ve agreed to give it?” Faith repeated.

The witch fixed Faith with a look.

“Fine,” said Faith, reluctantly letting go of the witch. (The witch winced and rubbed at her wrist.) “I guess I’ve kinda pushed a _lot_ today. But don’t think I’m not gonna keep asking!”

“I’d expect nothing less,” said the witch. “Now. Soup or sleep?”

Faith considered. She was still a little hungry, but the exhaustion of the last few minutes was beginning to catch up with her. “Sleep,” she said. Then, awkwardly, “I-I don’t have any nightmares when you put me to sleep. Can you do it again?”

She knew it was probably wishful thinking, but she thought that the witch’s expression _might_ have softened just a little. Sitting down next to Faith on the pillows again, the witch placed a hand on Faith’s cheek. _“Somnus,”_ she murmured, and this time, Faith felt herself lowered gently down onto the pillows as the world faded away.

* * *

When Faith woke up again, the witch had donned her cloak again and was in front of the crystal ball. This time, the scene was Giles and Buffy walking through a cemetery together, Giles with a bouquet of daisies in one hand and a bag of weapons in the other. _“Sorry for intruding on this particular cemetery, especially today,”_ Buffy was saying. _“I know this day is important to you.”_

 _“Her birthday,”_ Giles said absently, then kind of shook himself. _“But—no, I, I understand. Though the timing isn’t ideal—you’re still looking for her, aren’t you?”_

 _“Faith,”_ said Buffy, and Faith’s stomach twisted. _“Yeah. Giles, I know she’s gotta be out there somewhere. I thought maybe…”_ She trailed off, tilting her head up. _“Maybe she’d be in a place with some vamps, you know? Aching for a good fight.”_

Giles glanced sideways over at Buffy. Then, tentatively, he said, _“Buffy, I understand you care very deeply for Faith, but you must know—”_

The picture shifted sideways. “No, no, not _that,_ ” the witch mumbled impatiently, waving her hands across the crystal ball. “Just let me—”

“Wait, bring it back,” said Faith, her voice shaking. “Witch? Bring it back. What was Giles about to say?”

The witch jumped, black dress flaring out a little as she turned to face Faith. “You’re up!” she said, sounding a little like she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to. “What—um, do you need anything?”

“What was Giles about to say?” said Faith, sitting up.

The witch bit her lip. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know. My crystal ball can only show what’s happening at this very second.”

“Just—bring it back,” said Faith. “Maybe they’re still talking about me.”

After a moment of hesitation, the witch passed her hands over the crystal ball again.

 _“—miss her?”_ Buffy was saying.

Giles let out a soft breath. _“You don’t want to know the answer to that.”_

 _“I mean, I kinda do,”_ said Buffy. _“What happened to her was all because of—”_

The picture shut off. “Hey, what the fuck?” said Faith indignantly. “I was _watching_ that—”

“They’re not talking about you,” said the witch matter-of-factly. “They’re talking about that dead girlfriend of the Watcher’s. I think it’s her birthday today.”

“Shouldn’t an all-knowing witch like you _know all_ instead of just _think?”_ said Faith, but she was more irritated than genuinely upset. Lying back down, she rolled onto her side, watching as the light in the crystal ball faded into nothing. “Do you ever sleep?”

“I don’t need sleep,” said the witch.

YES SHE DOES, said Umbra.

“Shut the fuck up,” said the witch, sitting down next to a laughing Faith. “And Faith, that goes for you too. You still have a sore throat.”

“Umbra called you _out!”_ Faith wheezed. “Get some _sleep!”_

“I’m _not_ tired,” said the witch flatly.

YES SHE IS, said Umbra.

“For all its murdery tendencies, I think that shadow dude is definitely on my side,” said Faith, and held up her hand for a high-five. The cloak rustled disapprovingly around the witch’s shoulders. “C’mon, man, don’t leave me hanging—”

Deadpan, the witch high-fived Faith instead. Faith almost toppled over in shock. “I’m going to make you some soup,” said the witch, and Faith saw a spark of smug amusement in her eyes. “Try not to get yourself _more_ injured in the five minutes it takes me to do so.”

“Did you just fucking _high-five_ me?” said Faith.

“I don’t know,” said the witch, stirring the small cauldron of bubbling water on her desk. “Did I?”

“You suck,” muttered Faith, settling herself back into the pillows and watching the witch continue to work on the soup. “Can you at least turn on the crystal ball again? I need _something_ to watch.”

Without turning away from the cauldron, the witch waved her hand in the direction of the crystal ball again. It fizzled like a staticky TV, and then some cheesy cartoon showed up in the middle. LADY WITCH, said Umbra, THAT IS AN IRRESPONSIBLE AND RIDICULOUS WAY TO USE THE UNENDING POWER I HAVE GIVEN YOU—

“Umbra, you said you wanted me to _use_ your power, right?” said the witch, tugging sharply at her cloak. “Well, _I_ want to use the unending power of darkness to watch Pokémon on my crystal ball. Give me a fucking break and let me make some soup.”

Faith snickered and snuggled into the blankets, feeling—if she was being honest—much warmer and cozier than she had in her firelit room, even with this tower room’s drafty chill. She was only half paying attention to the show; most of her time was spent watching the witch. Suddenly, the cold, severe figure didn’t seem quite as unapproachable or unreachable as she had before.

After a few minutes, the witch came over with two bowls of soup, sitting down next to Faith. Faith sat up and took one. “I’m trying not to be a hypocrite,” said the witch reluctantly. “If I’m holding you to certain standards, it seems reasonable that I should make some compromises myself.” She took a spoonful of soup, then pulled a face. “Oh my god that’s bad. Oh god. Okay. Umbra, it won’t hurt Faith _too_ much if I use dark magic to make better soup, right?”

I MAKE NO PROMISES, said Umbra.

“Bastard,” said the witch, and took another reluctant spoonful of soup.

Faith, who had actually started to kind of like the soup, took a spoonful herself. It warmed her up from top to toe. “Thanks, uh—” Calling her _witch_ didn’t seem as appropriate anymore, especially now that the witch wasn’t calling Faith _Slayer._ “So what _is_ your name?”

Around the witch’s shoulders, Umbra rustled, seeming weirdly anticipatory.

“I don’t have a name,” said the witch frankly. “Calling me _witch_ is fine enough.”

“Bullshit,” said Faith. “Everyone’s got a name. I’m not just _Slayer,_ and if you get to call me _Faith—”_

“Eat your soup,” said the witch.

 _“You_ eat _your_ soup!” said Faith.

“Goddamnit,” muttered the witch, taking another spoonful.

They ate in relative silence, after that. Faith was hungrier than she realized, and the witch wasn’t exactly a Chatty Cathy even when soup _wasn’t_ there to be eaten. When they’d finished, the witch waved her hand, vanishing both of their bowls, and said somewhat awkwardly, “Do you—should I leave the crystal ball on for now? I think I’m going to try and get some sleep.”

“Wait, _seriously?”_ said Faith.

The witch chewed on her lip, then said, “You seem to be doing better.”

Faith blinked. Slowly, she said, “You haven’t been sleeping because you’ve been keeping an eye on _me?”_

“I’ll leave the crystal ball on,” said the witch very fast, getting up from the nest of pillows before Faith could pull her back down. Waving her hand, she created a strange, filmy net of magic next to Faith’s nest of pillows, then clambered somewhat awkwardly onto it, pulling Umbra over her to use as a blanket.

“You sure that dude won’t strangle you in your sleep?” said Faith.

“It’s in its contract that it can’t kill me,” said the witch, snuggling into the magical cloud and letting it envelop her. Her long hair unfurled slowly around her head like a weird, dark flower, and with her eyes closed, she looked kind of like one of those creepy old paintings at the museums that had always bored Faith to tears.

Faith stared at the witch, fascinated. Without the tenseness to her mouth and the angry violet eyes, the witch looked less scary and more like a _person._ This didn’t seem like someone who would throw Faith up against a wall—or even someone who _could._

The cloak rustled. Quietly, in a voice that was clearly for Faith’s ears alone, Umbra said, SLAYER, I AM SURE YOU HAVE MANY QUESTIONS.

“I mean, yeah, but not for you,” said Faith, who wasn’t super interested in talking to the demon that had _basically_ tried to kill the witch. “Aren’t you supposed to be her blanket right now? Blankets don’t talk.”

I CAN ANSWER ANY QUESTION YOU WISH, said Umbra. ANYTHING AT ALL.

“Yeah?” said Faith. “No such thing as a free lunch, as far as I’ve learned. What’s in it for you?”

The cloak rustled again, thoughtful and a little pensive. IT SEEMS YOU ARE BEGINNING TO UNDERSTAND THE RULES OF THIS WORLD, it said. I WILL ADMIT, IT IS MORE THAN I THOUGHT YOU WOULD ACCOMPLISH. YOU ARE A VIOLENT, RECKLESS SLAYER. I HAD HOPED TO CALL YOU MY ALLY.

“And I’m not?”

THE LADY WITCH TRUSTS YOU IMPLICITLY, said Umbra, AND YET YOU HAVE NO INTENTION OF ABUSING THAT TRUST.

Faith blinked. The thought hadn’t even occurred to her—largely because she hadn’t even realized that the witch felt _anything_ towards her. “She trusts me?” she said, unable to keep the small tremble out of her voice.

THE LADY WITCH HAS NOT SLEPT FOR NEARLY A YEAR, said Umbra. THOUGH SHE KNOWS I CANNOT KILL HER, SHE DOES NOT TRUST TO CLOSE HER EYES, FOR FEAR OF WHAT I WILL DO IF LEFT UNCHECKED. THIS IS THE FIRST TIME SHE HAS LET HERSELF SLEEP, AND IT IS BECAUSE SHE KNOWS THAT A SLAYER WATCHES OVER HER.

“What can _I_ do against you?” said Faith, a mixture of skeptical and genuinely curious.

The cloak rustled one last time, and when Umbra spoke again, its voice faded slowly away. MORE THAN YOU KNOW.

* * *

When the witch woke up again—around the time that Faith herself was beginning to feel sleepy—some of the blank hardness had dissipated from her face, and her violet eyes seemed a shade murkier than Faith remembered them being. A little closer to looking actually human, Faith thought. “How was Umbra?” she said, and despite the lightness to her tone, Faith could tell that the question was pretty damn serious. “Make you an offer you couldn’t refuse?”

“Your cloak _is_ a jackass,” Faith informed her. “I think you _should_ set it on fire.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said the witch.

“Why not?”

The witch seemed to have to consider this one. Finally, and with deliberation, she said, “It keeps us safe.”

“Us, huh?” said Faith, leaning over to knock her shoulder against the witch’s. “You and me. A crack team.”

“I definitely would not call us that,” said the witch. “Also, you look tired. Get some sleep.”

“I think Team Rocket’s gonna win this time,” said Faith, trying to peer over the top of the witch’s head.

“Team Rocket never wins,” said the witch, pushing Faith gently back down into the pillows as she clambered out of her dark-magic nest. “Get some sleep. How long have you been awake?”

“Listen, Misty, if there’s no sunrise or sunset, there’s no bedtime,” Faith shot back.

 _“Misty?”_ said the witch.

 _“Is_ your name Misty?” said Faith.

“I don’t _have_ a name,” said the witch irritably. “Go to sleep. Aren’t you done annoying me in an attempt to try and get me to kill you?”

“Well, yeah,” said Faith. “This is just me annoying you ‘cause it’s fun.”

Once again, a small, reluctant smile flitted across the witch’s face. “Go to sleep, smart-ass,” she said.

 _“My_ name is Faith,” said Faith. “What’s _your_ n—” She started coughing.

“Will you let me do the sleep spell?” said the witch.

Eyes streaming, Faith nodded, already moving forward towards the witch’s outstretched hand.


	6. to have someone understand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very nearly forgot to post this, lmao. this is the first chapter from my new laptop, tho, so that's cool!!!

“Diana?”

“Eat your soup.”

“So it _is_ Diana?”

“Take a spoonful and I’ll tell you.”

Delighted at her victory, Faith obliged, taking _two_ spoonfuls of soup for good measure. “So—”

“It’s not Diana,” said the witch, looking annoyingly smug. “None of your guesses are going to be right. I don’t have a name.”

“But you said—”

“Take another spoonful and I can tell you another name I don’t have,” said the witch.

“Listen, Elise, I’m not letting this one lie,” Faith persisted. “If you don’t give me a name, I think I’m just gonna have to pick one for you—and you do _not_ want me to pick one for you.”

“I honestly couldn’t care less,” said the witch. Then, _“Elise?”_

“You kinda look like an Elise,” said Faith. “Or, uh—hmm. Maybe I’ll call you Charity. Y’know, ‘cause you opened your home to me and made me soup.”

“I don’t _have_ a name, Faith—”

“Umbra,” said Faith, “why is Charity being such a stick-in-the-mud?”

NAMES HAVE POWER, SLAYER, said Umbra, AND THE LADY WITCH DOES NOT WISH TO LEAVE ANY AVENUES BY WHICH SHE CAN BE OVERPOWERED.

“Wait, seriously?” said Faith. _“That’s_ why you don’t have a name? Is this some kinda Rumpelstiltskin dealio?” She blinked, then grinned. _“Hey—”_

“My name isn’t Rumpelstiltskin,” said the witch, spooning some soup into Faith’s mouth. “Largely because I don’t _have_ one.”

Faith swallowed the soup, considering. _“Wanda,”_ she said. “Like _wand._ ‘Cause you’re a witch, get it?”

“Eat your fucking soup,” said the witch, but Faith could see that her eyes were sparkling with a reluctant mirth. “And if you ever call me _Wanda_ again, I really will flip you through a wall.”

LADY WANDA, said Umbra. Faith fell over laughing and quickly transitioned into another coughing fit.

 _“You_ are a little asshole,” the witch informed her cloak, taking it off and dropping it on the floor. “Both of you. Faith, sit up and drink some water—at this rate you’re not gonna get better for _weeks.”_

“I _am_ feeling better!” said Faith earnestly. Slayer healing did _wonders._ “I bet I could be up and at ‘em tomorrow.”

The witch gave her a doubtful look.

YOU CODDLE HER, LADY WITCH, said Umbra from the floor. THE SLAYER HAS LONG SINCE HEALED FROM HER INJURIES.

“Well, yeah, she’s not _bleeding,_ ” said the witch, glaring in the cloak’s direction, “but when she still can’t laugh without coughing, I hesitate to let her fight things again.”

“Uh, I don’t need to fight,” said Faith, feeling an awkward nervousness as the witch turned surprised eyes in her direction. “I-I’m good just, y’know, staying up here.”

“You _don’t need to fight,”_ the witch repeated disbelievingly. “Are you sicker than you’re letting on?”

“No, I, I just…” Faith trailed off, embarrassed. “I just like it up here,” she said a little shyly. “Y’know, watching stuff on the crystal ball, having soup…” She trailed off. “It’s a lot warmer up here than down in the castle,” she said.

“It’s drafty,” said the witch, evasive and awkward. “Your room’s got a fireplace to keep you warm. And if you want a TV to watch movies on, I can magic you up something _way_ bigger than my crystal ball.”

Faith let out a breath, feeling strangely disappointed. “Yeah,” she said. “That’d be cool.”

After a moment of hesitation, the witch said tentatively, “I mean, Faith…you can’t have expected to stay up here all the time.”

It took Faith a moment to fully understand what the witch was saying, and another moment to respond. “When I get better,” she said slowly, “you’re gonna go back to living up here by yourself and ignoring me, aren’t you?”

The witch didn’t answer. She didn’t seem able to meet Faith’s eyes.

There was a strange lump in Faith’s throat. “Yeah,” she said again, settling into the pillows. “Yeah. Obviously. Y’know, I actually do feel…pretty sick, I think. I’m gonna just go to sleep.”

“What happened to _I bet I could be up and at ‘em tomorrow?”_ said the witch quietly.

“Well, right now I feel like throwing up,” said Faith, unable to keep the venom out of her voice. Rolling away from the witch, she curled into the pillows and blankets, staring out of the tower window at the starless sky, the rocks surrounding the castle, the valley below the mountain. It had felt homey, looking down at that view, but now it just felt…isolating. Miserable. She’d thought—she’d thought the witch _liked_ spending time with her. She’d thought that the witch would want to spend _more_ time with her after this. She liked the way it felt, up in that tower, the witch asleep in a nest of magic while Faith watched cartoons and sitcoms and black-and-white movies.

“Faith,” said the witch, reaching out to place a hand on Faith’s shoulder.

“Just leave me alone,” said Faith, curling inward. “That’s what you wanna do once all of this is over, isn’t it? I’m just some fuckin’ inconvenience.” She let out a small, harsh breath. “Don’t know why I thought you were different,” she mumbled.

For a moment, the witch’s hand lingered, and Faith thought that she might say something. But then the touch retreated, the pillows shifting as the witch got up, and Faith was left alone to her own devices. Well, not _alone,_ not _really—_ the witch was now stepping up to the crystal ball, whispering her usual incantation as a picture flickered to life—but the distance between them felt vast, more so than it had been even at the beginning.

Some part of Faith had always kind of thought that the witch liked her at least a _little_ bit, in the way you liked a cheesy cartoon. A fun distraction, even if parts were a little annoying or a little boring or both. But the witch had clearly been telling the truth when she’d said she didn’t want anything to do with Faith. Even after they’d promised to hold each other to not dying—even after the witch had held Faith and stroked her hair and fed her soup—

Faith buried her face in a pillow, doing her best to muffle her sobs. She thought she was doing a pretty great job of it, all things considered: if the witch was listening in, it would probably have sounded like Faith was just breathing really heavily or something. A-plus, Lehane. Great job. God, she was getting really fuckin’ good at crying like this.

 _“—don’t know,”_ Buffy was saying. _“It would have been easier if—”_

 _“Yeah, yeah, we get it,”_ said Xander, his voice thin and exasperated. _“This whole thing would have been_ so _much better if Faith was here. God, do you ever talk about anything else?”_

 _“You know what?”_ snapped Buffy. _“I’m getting kind of sick of all of you pretending she never existed! She was just as much a part of the Scooby Gang as the rest of us, and all of you are acting like—god, I don’t even know. Like she was only ever important because_ I _liked her! She was a_ person, _and she was_ afraid, _and you should have seen her face when she killed that guy—”_ Her voice broke. _“I just want to know she’s okay,”_ she sobbed out. _“I just want to tell her how sorry I am for—for letting that happen—”_

“Turn that the fuck off,” said Faith into the pillow.

 _“Buffy,”_ said Giles softly.

 _“It was an accident!”_ Buffy was crying very hard. _“She didn’t mean to—”_

“TURN THAT THE FUCK OFF,” shouted Faith, pulling herself out of the pillow nest and lunging for the crystal ball. The witch blocked her, stepping sharply in front of it and catching Faith as she sobbed. “No— _no—_ turn it _off, please—_ ”

Holding Faith tightly against her, the witch waved a hand. The picture shimmered and changed, the voices blurring, and the crystal ball moved in on Giles and Cordelia instead, cutting Buffy out of frame.

“Turn it _off,_ ” Faith persisted, trying to squirm out of the witch’s arms. “I can’t—don’t make me look at them. Don’t make me—”

“Shh,” murmured the witch, raising her hand to Faith’s face the same way she always did before a sleep spell.

“Get the FUCK away from me!” Faith screamed. “I don’t want your fucking spells, I don’t want your fucking soup, and I don’t want _ANYTHING_ to do with _YOU!”_

The witch flinched back, dropping her arms. Her violet eyes had darkened into a deep, hurt brownish-black, and Umbra was rustling on the floor in that way it had the _last_ time it had darkened the room, and Faith could not fucking deal with this bullshit anymore. Not the witch, not Umbra, not this fucking castle—she pushed past the witch, yanking the tower door open, and tumbled into a dark, endless void.

For a moment, she thought she could feel Umbra wrapping itself around her—but then she realized that this darkness was simply darkness, with nothing malicious about it. This, Faith realized, was why she hadn’t been able to find the witch: whatever the tower room was, there was no way of getting in or out without the witch’s magic. The void wasn’t trying to steal her breath or kill her or anything, but it was also completely impossible to find her way back to the door she’d opened. All that existed was darkness, devoid of sensation.

Strangely, it was actually starting to calm Faith down. Away from the witch and the Scoobies, floating in the endless darkness, she didn’t really have to think about anything. She could just stay here forever, if she wanted—

The darkness began to clear, but slowly, and Faith found herself standing in an unfamiliar room, blood puddled at her feet. “What—” she began, and then heard the witch’s voice, as if from a distance—but with more emotion than Faith had _ever_ heard from her.

 _“—no, no, baby please—oh, god, th-this is all my fault—”_ The witch was sobbing.

A rattling gasp. Faith followed the bloodstains—or tried to. Moving through this apartment was a little like walking through water, and the closer she got to the source of the blood, the more resistance she felt from the air around her.

_“Come on. Hold on. Look at me, I l-love you, I—”_

And then Faith felt a hand close firmly around her arm. Dread curling in her stomach, she looked up into the witch’s eyes, and saw nothing but electric anger. “What are you doing here?” said the witch harshly, her fingers digging into Faith’s arm. “What the _fuck_ do you think you’re trying to do?”

Broken sobs echoed through the room, and Faith craned her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the source. Sure enough, now that she was looking, she could see the witch sitting on the floor, her face anguished and tear-stained as she cradled—someone. The dying person’s face was obscured by a strange, dark mist, and with a last gasp, they stilled in the witch’s arms. _“No,”_ the witch sobbed. _“No—no, please no—”_

Darkness wrapped itself around the both of them again, and when it cleared, they were once again standing in front of the crystal ball. The library was empty now, Giles filing books as usual—no sign of a more tearful and repentant Buffy than Faith had ever dared to imagine. The witch snapped her fingers and the ball went out. “How _dare_ you?” she hissed, sounding as though she might boil over with rage. “This is _exactly_ why you need to stay away from me. You’re putting everything at risk.”

“Who was that?” said Faith softly, unable to remember how angry she had been.

“Why should you care?” said the witch bitterly, dropping her hands and stepping away from Faith. “You don’t want anything to do with me, remember?”

“I didn’t—”

“I don’t fucking care,” said the witch. “I’ve had enough teenage melodrama from you to last me a lifetime. You blow hot and cold and expect me to coddle you—well, fuck that. Umbra was right about you being a major threat to what I’m trying to do.”

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about?” Faith demanded. “Umbra said you _trusted_ me!”

The witch smiled—a quick, miserable twist of her lips—and stepped back into the shadows, letting Umbra wrap itself around her yet again. “That’s the problem,” she said, her voice fading into nothing as the darkness filled the tower room.

* * *

When the darkness cleared, Faith was lying on top of the covers in what had once been her medieval, firelit bedroom. But the room was more modern and chic than she remembered it: a big TV, a PlayStation, a cozy bed with fitted sheets and a nice comforter, a glossy black dresser full of clothing—hell, even a mini-fridge. Someone had clearly gone to a lot of effort to make sure she’d feel comfortable—or, more likely, to distract her from something she shouldn’t have seen.

It wasn’t working. All Faith could think about was the way it had felt to hear the witch cry like that, even if it had only been a memory. After seeing that—the deep anguish on the witch’s face, the way she’d cradled whoever it was that had died in her arms—Faith felt _sure_ that the witch shutting her out wasn’t as cut-and-dry as the witch just not liking her. The witch was hiding something _big_ from Faith—but why? Didn’t she know Faith would want to _help?_

No. Faith was too much of a mess to help, at least according to the witch. The witch didn’t want Faith trying to help and fucking things up. That part made sense, at least—and it did also explain why the witch hadn’t wanted to associate with Faith. The witch _did_ trust Faith—she just didn’t want Faith involved in whatever it was she was working on.

God, Faith felt like shit.

“Witch?” she said, sitting up. Her voice trembled. There was no response. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I know I’m not—I know I’m kinda annoying and I know you don’t want me here. But I…” She swallowed, sniffling. She felt suddenly very glad that the witch probably wasn’t listening. “I just wanted you to know that _I_ think _you’re_ pretty cool. You make shitty soup, but I’d probably make worse soup if I tried. So. Uh. Thanks for the soup, I guess.”

There was no response.

“I just—” Faith sniffled again. “I don’t think anyone’s ever taken care of me like that,” she said. “And even if you weren’t all gentle and shit, you still got me better, and that means a lot to me.”

There was no response.

“Thanks,” said Faith. “For everything. I mean it. I hope you’re okay, and I’m really sorry about seeing that stuff. I didn’t mean to—” She exhaled, lying back in her bed and curling up on top of the covers. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, hiding her face in the pillows. “Really sorry. I don’t hate you.”

The room remained silent, just as it had before. And now Faith was right back where she’d been when she’d entered the castle: recovering from some pretty serious injuries, in a lonely, silent bedroom full of everything she could possibly need. She wanted to feel as warmed and cozy as she had that first night, but all she could think about was the drafty chill of the witch’s tower room, and the soft glow of the crystal ball, and the witch herself—weird, abrasive, strangely gentle when she thought Faith wasn’t paying attention. She hadn’t expected to miss that, and she _did,_ and she hated herself for missing it.

Faith snuggled into the covers, wishing more than _anything_ that she could just fucking _sleep—_

 _“Somnus,”_ whispered a soft, shaking voice, and a hand at Faith’s temple was the last thing she felt.

* * *

Faith woke up with a gasp, throwing off the covers and looking all around the room. _“WITCH!”_ she shouted, heart pounding, _convinced_ that the witch was lurking somewhere in the shadows—and if the witch _was,_ if the witch still wanted to put her to sleep and tuck the covers around her, even after Faith had said all of that embarrassingly sappy bullshit—

But the room was still empty, though the lights were now on—and a large platter of food sat on a breakfast tray atop her dresser. Bread, butter, jam, eggs, orange juice…all the room-service fixings of a five-star establishment. The spell that had given her food had never been this extravagant or generous before, and something about that made Faith almost feel like the witch was trying to apologize.

“Witch,” she said again, a little softer, a little more hopeful.

But after a good minute or so of anticipatory silence, Faith decided that she must have been wrong. _Don’t be ridiculous,_ she told herself firmly. _If she’d wanted to apologize, she’d have fucking apologized. This is just her giving you some better food._ With reluctance, she pulled herself out of bed, picking up one of the pieces of bread and taking a large, ungraceful bite. It tasted _way_ better than the witch’s soup, but it still left her feeling frustratingly empty.

Maybe it wasn’t the food, Faith thought. Maybe it was something else.

God, she wished she felt like fighting. It had been so fucking easy to distract herself before the witch had started _meaning_ something to her. She’d been alone in a big castle, she’d had someone to piss off, and her only goal had been to find a way to finally get herself killed. But now she _knew_ the witch, well enough to know that the witch was never gonna let anything bad happen to Faith in this castle, and she knew that fighting wasn’t going to distract her from that.

Faith needed a distraction.

After getting dressed and eating an unholy amount of food, Faith exited her room, finding herself once again alone in the empty house. She missed the witch, but didn’t want to call attention to how fucking _much_ she missed the witch, so she crossed her arms and began to wander aimlessly down the hall.

A door to her left swung open. Warily, Faith peered into it: all she could see was darkness.

“So _wait,_ ” said Faith, tilting her head back to glare up at the castle. “Are you tryin’ to tell me something? ‘Cause if this is some of Umbra’s usual bullshit, I’m not interested.”

The air shimmered. From the doorway, Umbra said, THE LADY WITCH HAS FORSAKEN YOU, SLAYER. SHE WILL NOT GIVE YOU THE ANSWERS YOU SEEK.

“Well, I’m not really _seeking_ any answers,” Faith shot back.

DO YOU NOT WISH TO KNOW THE LADY WITCH’S GREATEST SECRETS? persisted Umbra. DO YOU NOT WISH TO KNOW OF THE SACRIFICES SHE HAS MADE IN HER DARK CRUSADE? DO YOU NOT WISH TO KNOW HER NAME?

“Not from _you_ I don’t,” said Faith.

I, AT LEAST, AM HONEST ABOUT MY MOTIVES, said Umbra frankly. CAN YOU SAY THE SAME ABOUT THE LADY WITCH?

Faith gave the question about as much consideration as she felt it deserved: absolutely none. “She’s never lied to me,” she said. “Keeping secrets isn’t the same thing as being dishonest, and if she has a few to keep, why should I be pissed off? I’ve got secrets of my own.”

I WILL MAKE YOU THIS OFFER ONCE MORE, said Umbra, AND THEN NEVER AGAIN. ANYTHING YOU WISH TO KNOW ABOUT THE LADY WITCH—

Faith shut the door.

About two seconds after shutting the door, Faith began to kind of rethink shutting the door. The witch _hadn’t_ told her all that much, after all, and it was pretty clear that all Faith would get from her was weird scraps of accidentally divulged information. Umbra had been offering to tell Faith _anything,_ and Faith had turned Umbra down—why? Out of loyalty to a lady who hadn’t given her any reason to be loyal?

 _That’s not true,_ said a new voice, one speaking from a part of Faith’s heart long-buried and long-ignored. _She took care of you._

Faith chewed on her lip, torn. She _wanted_ to know more about the witch, but she definitely didn’t trust whatever it was that Umbra had been offering to tell her. There had to be a way to figure this puzzle out _without_ anyone else’s help—

Wait.

 _God,_ Faith was an idiot.

 _One Girl in All the World, remember?_ she thought to herself, beginning to grin. This kind of weird detective-research shit wasn’t exactly Slayer terrain, but Faith was _more_ than used to doing stuff like this on her lonesome. If she was gonna figure out why the witch was so hell-bent on icing her out, of _course_ she’d be able to do it alone—and she wouldn’t need some weird, shady demon’s help to do it, either.


	7. certain as the sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boy, some weeks rlly hit harder than others for me. but it's always a joy to post a chapter of this, and i hope all of you enjoy this one as well!

The concept of snooping in the witch’s private business didn’t feel as illicit or dangerous as Faith had expected it to—certainly not as illicit or dangerous as it would have felt when she’d first arrived in the castle. She’d imagined the usual anticipated exhilaration she felt upon taking a dangerous risk, but the most prevalent emotion as she tiptoed around the castle was an unusually heavy sense of guilt.

It threw her a little bit off-balance. Guilt wasn’t an emotion she was used to feeling. Sure, sometimes she felt a little bad about the shit she’d done, but she was always able to justify it: _she_ was bad, after all, and bad people did bad things, so why feel bad about one thing on a long _list_ of bad things? All or nothing, in Faith’s opinion—and she usually liked to go with “nothing” in terms of what she wanted to feel guilty for.

But Faith couldn’t shake Umbra’s whispery voice in the back of her head: _THE LADY WITCH TRUSTS YOU IMPLICITLY._ She honestly didn’t know how the witch might react upon finding out exactly how Faith was using that trust, and it made her miss the days that she’d been so certain the witch would just fucking kill her. If Faith had the witch’s trust, then Faith had the power to genuinely hurt the witch, and Faith didn’t _ever_ want to do that.

That felt important. Faith decided not to think about it. Unsure where to start looking, she decided to do what she always did: improvise. Turning to the nearest door, she tugged expectantly at its handle.

It didn’t open.

Faith frowned. She’d tried that door during her first exploration of the castle, and while she couldn’t entirely recall what she’d found, she’d definitely been able to open it. Tugging at it again proved fruitless: even with her added Slayer strength, it didn’t so much as budge.

Eyes narrowed, Faith squared up, then kicked the door as hard as she could. She felt the impact in her still-healing leg and _howled,_ falling back on her ass. “What the _fuck!”_ she demanded hotly, pulling herself up to lean back on her elbows and glare at the door. “You opened _last_ time—”

“Are you fucking serious?” said the witch, pulling Faith into a sitting position and dusting her off. “Don’t try and kick the doors in if they won’t open, don’t antagonize the castle, and _don’t_ hurt yourself like that! You’re _still_ getting better, even if you’re able to be up and about.”

Faith’s heart leapt. She hadn’t seen the witch in—well, if her math was right, nearly two days. “Hi,” she said, grinning up at the witch.

The witch flushed. “What’s that smile about?” she said indignantly. “I’m _lecturing_ you, Faith—”

“It’s good to see you outside the tower,” said Faith. “Though it kinda sucks that I have to get myself hurt for you to notice me. Honestly, I think you’re just givin’ me incentive to try and kick in _more_ doors.”

“Oh my god,” said the witch, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’ve gone from a force of darkness to a glorified babysitter.”

“You’re kind of a shitty babysitter,” said Faith helpfully. “I’ve been alone in this castle for like two days. That’s _more_ than enough time to burn this place to the ground.”

SHE WANTS ATTENTION, LADY WITCH, said Umbra. I WOULD ADVISE YOU GIVE IT TO HER.

“No,” said the witch. “You know what? No! I am a _lady of solitude,_ and I have _no obligation_ to have my life plans turned upside down by this—this— _child!”_

“So what _are_ your life plans?” said Faith. “Live by yourself in a castle and then die?”

 _“YES!”_ said the witch, as though this should have been somehow obvious.

Faith crossed her arms, staring the witch down. The witch stared back, violet eyes sparking with electric anger. “Two words,” said Faith. _“Death wish.”_

The witch flushed again. It was weird, seeing her blush—instead of red, a strange inky blackness rose to her cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said unconvincingly.

“Listen, lady, I’m making efforts,” said Faith. “I’m not goin’ out picking fights with anything that looks at me funny, and I’m not annoying you—” at the witch’s huff, Faith pointedly continued, “— _out of an effort to get you to kill me._ But I’m doing that ‘cause we struck a deal: I work on my death wish _and you work on yours.”_

“I don’t need to work on anything,” said the witch stubbornly.

“Thing is, I think you kinda do,” said Faith. “Like it or not, your life plans got shifted when you made that deal with me.”

At that, the witch’s expression shifted. The righteous anger in her eyes flickered out, replaced by a hollow sadness. “There’s only so much you can change, Faith,” she said.

“Oh, stop being so fuckin’ edgy,” said Faith impatiently. “I don’t give a shit about the mysterious deal you made with Umbra. I _get_ that it spells bad news for you, but y’know what? I don’t think you should use that as an excuse to hide in your castle and never talk to anyone again.” Heart pounding a little, she added stubbornly, “Plus, you said you’d take care of me, and you’re not doing a good job of it if you’re not _there,_ are you?”

Quietly, the witch said, “I don’t know how good I’m gonna be at helping you, Faith.”

“I don’t know,” said Faith, giving her a small smile. “My standards are pretty low. Sometimes my mom would forget to buy food and not come home for a week and I’d have to shoplift shit from the convenience store down the street.”

“That’s not what I mean,” said the witch uncomfortably. “I’m just—I’m not good with—” She let out a frustrated breath. “I’m not good with kids.”

“Well, that works!” said Faith cheerfully, crossing her arms and giving the witch a pissed-off smile. “We already talked about how I’m _not_ a kid, right?”

“Ghhghg,” said the witch, burying her face in her hands—but when she looked up again, she was almost smiling back.

“I’m not asking for much,” said Faith, and found herself strangely nervous. “I’d just—it’d be kinda nice to not wander around the castle without ever running into you. I _like_ you, Abigail.”

“Yeah, well—” The witch stopped. “I’m sorry, _Abigail?”_

“Kinda went for something Salem-y,” said Faith. “Did I get it this time?”

“I don’t know _why_ the fuck I let you into my house,” said the witch. Her weird little half-smile hadn’t gone away. “Okay. Honestly, I really _don’t_ go down into the castle that much, so the whole avoiding-you thing was only _kind_ of intentional. I’m sure you’ll run into me in the library once every so often, but I basically _live_ in my tower room.”

“Don’t you go stir-crazy?” said Faith skeptically.

The witch shrugged a little uncomfortably. “The castle’s…” She trailed off. “Too big,” she said. “Way too empty.”

“Well,” said Faith, “it’s not _way_ too empty, is it?” She held out her hand, pinky extended. “There’s us.”

The witch looked down at Faith’s pinky with a bemused frown.

“C’mon,” said Faith persistently. “If we’re gonna be bros, we gotta have _some_ kind of secret handshake—and nothing beats a good old-fashioned pinky swear.”

“What are we pinky swearing on?” said the witch skeptically.

Faith considered the question, then said, “I think we’re pinky swearing that we’re gonna hold each other accountable for our bullshit—”

“Didn’t we already agree to that?”

“— _and,_ ” said Faith, “that we’re gonna _listen_ to each other when we do it. You don’t shut me out anymore—”

“—and you don’t get yourself hurt trying to get someone’s attention,” the witch finished, then gave Faith a tight, awkward smile. “God, we really are a pair, huh?”

Faith exhaled, almost a laugh. “You can say that again.”

The witch linked pinkies with Faith, shaking their hands with almost comic solemnity. Then, almost shyly, she said, “You kinda distracted me from what I was trying to say. If you really _do_ want to run into me more than just every so often—” And she entwined their fingers, holding Faith’s hand as the darkness surrounded them again.

* * *

This time, when the darkness cleared, the witch was still standing right in front of her. Faith let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, then looked around, feeling something she hadn’t felt in a long time. The cozy warmth in her chest, the tension draining from her body…being in the witch’s chilly little tower room felt like coming home after a long day. “Any particular reason you brought me here?” she asked, trying to keep her voice light and laughing.

“A small one,” said the witch mysteriously, letting go of Faith’s hand to head over towards her desk.

“Gonna finally strike me down?”

“Faith, _what_ were we _just_ talking about?”

“…don’t think it was about me not being able to make jokes,” muttered Faith, her cheeks heating up.

The witch turned away from her desk, holding a thin rope tied in a loop to make a necklace. The weird purple stone in the middle caught Faith’s attention. “Amethyst,” said the witch, pressing the necklace into Faith’s hand, and gave her that weird little almost-smile. “If you put it on, it’ll take you straight to my tower.”

Faith blinked, all thoughts knocked out of her head. _THE LADY WITCH TRUSTS YOU IMPLICITLY—_ and god, more and more, it was starting to look like Umbra was _right._ Though she was prickly and weird and kind of a loner, the witch _did_ care about Faith in her own weird way. Was going behind the back of the one person who _actually_ cared about Faith _really_ a good idea?

After a few expectant moments, the witch seemed to give up on Faith having a response. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll take that as a _thank you for the crystal, lady witch, I’ll use it responsibly and not just bother you at random hours to watch Pokémon on your crystal ball.”_

“Man, I wouldn’t do that,” said Faith, hastening to come up with a quick, quippy reply. “There are other shows besides Pokémon that I can watch on your crystal ball.”

“You’re a nightmare,” said the witch, but this time, Faith really _could_ hear the subtle affection behind it. “Listen, I still have some work to do, but I can unlock a few doors for you if you need to check in on something. What was it you were looking for?”

Now, Faith knew, was the time to come clean—to honestly ask the witch about whatever it was that Umbra knew and Faith didn’t. The witch might appreciate her forthrightness and answer honestly—that, or the witch might _not_ answer her honestly, and the questions might make the witch correctly suspect that Faith was planning some kind of investigation on her lonesome. Which was more important—the truth, or the witch’s trust?

And then Faith thought of Buffy, in a way that couldn’t be pushed away. The secrets that Buffy had kept, the ones that Faith hadn’t asked about, that had culminated in Faith almost killing Buffy’s boyfriend. Secret-keeping could only ever lead to pain—and hypocritical as it was for Faith to keep secrets of her own, she couldn’t sit by again as someone she cared about kept secrets from _her._

“I was looking for the library,” she said.

The witch’s mouth twitched. “Please don’t tell me you were planning on trying to clean it up again.”

“Well—” Faith let out a breath. “I was bored,” she said. “I wanted to see if there was anything worth reading.”

And the witch _lit up._ A full-blown smile appeared on her face, her violet eyes alight with something that _wasn’t_ angry magic. The genuine joy in her grin was transformative—turning her from a strange, forbidding specter into a woman who—Faith realized with a jolt—couldn’t possibly be any older than her mid-thirties. “Really?” she said. “Okay! I can—I’d love to share that with you! It’s been so long since—gosh, I’m so sorry, I’m just so happy that someone else wants to read!”

Faith found herself speechless. Her first thought tumbled out of her mouth almost as it came to her mind: “You look…really happy.”

The witch’s smile didn’t vanish. It softened into something more familiarly awkward, but the happiness in her eyes hadn’t changed. “My books have remained untouched for a very long time,” she said. “I’ve read them all, you see, and…it’s nice to think of them being appreciated again.”

Huh, Faith thought. Maybe her pursuit of the truth might have accidentally earned her _more_ of the witch’s trust. She’d definitely learned a tiny bit more about the witch, _that_ was for certain. “I’ll do my best to be gentle,” she said, grinning awkwardly. “Definitely won’t be opening up any windows.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” said the witch, waving a hand. “This is a magical pocket dimension. I can call any lost papers back to me with a snap of my fingers.”

Faith grinned. “Awesome. So does that mean I can dump all the books out the window?”

The witch rolled her eyes. “You really do like pushing my buttons,” she said.

“Can’t help it,” said Faith. “You’re easy to push.”

* * *

The library was still kind of musty—but this time, the witch noticed Faith holding her breath, and waved a hand, vanishing the dust. The books shone, the wooden shelves gleamed, and the windows would have let the light in if it wasn’t still pitch-dark outside. “Pick a book, any book,” said the witch with a laugh in her voice. “We have research, romance, resurrection—”

“The only R’s that matter,” said Faith seriously.

The witch’s cheeks went black—one of those strange blushes again. _Weird,_ Faith thought, and filed it away for later contemplation. Turning to one of the bookshelves, she picked the first book she saw, then informed the witch, _“Random_ is a pretty good R. Can I read this?”

“Like I said,” said the witch, who was already settling into a chair with a battered old tome. “Any book you want.”

Faith opened the book to a random page.

* * *

**_The Girl Who Brought Back the Sun_ **

_Once upon a time, there was a beautiful young maiden with sunshine in her heart. The life and light she held inside her was enough to eradicate any trace of darkness—and though she herself did not recognize it, she had the capacity to bring light back into the world._

_For the little town that the maiden lived in was shrouded in a miserable darkness, one so pervasive and powerful that those inside it had forgotten what the sun even looked like. People had adjusted with ease to the moonlight, the misery, and the strange, terrible monsters that preyed on those who strayed too far from the village. They built warm, happy homes, they stayed in after dark, and they didn’t think anything of the oddities that plagued their sleepy lives._

_But the maiden was different. A child of summer, she remembered what it had been like when the sun shone brightly in the sky, and she was not satisfied with a world of darkness and deception. So she left her sleepy town behind and set off on a quest to find the sun again._

* * *

The next page was ripped out.

“Wait, what the fuck?” said Faith. “Hey, Melody, why’s this book missing a page?”

“That had better not be another guess at my name,” said the witch without looking up from her book.

“Did I get it?”

“I don’t _have_ a name,” said the witch. “And I don’t know why the book’s missing a page. Probably just Umbra being a dick.” She shook her cloak. “Umbra, give Faith the page back or I’ll set you on fire.”

EMPTY THREATS DO NOT FRIGHTEN ME, LADY WITCH, said Umbra. AND I CANNOT GIVE THE SLAYER WHAT I DO NOT HAVE.

“You hear that?” said the witch to Faith. “That’s its lying voice. That’s the voice it uses when it’s being a little lying bastard.” Faith snorted. “Listen,” the witch informed her cloak, “I put the library back in working order. I repaired every single book. If there’s a page missing, then that means that _someone_ fucked with this library, and I am _not—”_

MAYBE YOU JUST NEED TO WORK ON TAKING BETTER CARE OF YOUR BOOKS, said Umbra.

Snickering, Faith went back to the book. The middle page was missing, but the page after that wasn’t.

* * *

_The maiden raised the Sword of Sunlight high and proud. Then, with a flash of gold, she sunk it into the darkness, ending the endless night._

_THE END_

* * *

“God, that fairy tale fucking sucks,” muttered Faith. All it had done was remind her of the _child of summer_ she couldn’t help but miss. _A beautiful young maiden with sunshine in her heart—_ how come every heroine seemed so much like Buffy and her sweet, bright smile? Was it just because of her useless crush? It was probably just because of her useless crush.

And now she was thinking about Buffy, and _that_ sucked. Turning to another page at random, Faith was relieved to see that _this_ story didn’t remind her of _anything_ at all.

* * *

**_The Beast, The Traveler, and the Little Red Rose_ **

_Once upon a time, there was a traveler, who had made it his purpose in life to answer the questions that needed answering. But after he had answered the queries he had arrived to assist with, he found that he was no longer needed, and so he moved along on his own. Village after village left him feeling more and more bereft, and as he neared the end of his life, he began to feel as though he had entirely wasted all of it. The people he saw in the villages were young and fresh-faced, excited to begin their own journeys—and it made him more and more aware of the fruitlessness—and the loneliness—of his._

_But because the traveler was a good man, he was not bitter, and he tried to be kind and gentle to all the young children he met in the villages he visited. “When you find your purpose,” he told them, “when you know what you want to do—pursue it. Believe in it. Nothing is more important than knowing that you have made the world a better place in your own special way.”_

_One day, when wandering through a forest, the traveler saw a little red rose._

_“Hello,” said the traveler._

_“Hello,” said the little red rose._

_Because it was the question he asked all the world, the traveler asked the little red rose, “Do you have a purpose?”_

_The little red rose thought about the question. Then it said, “Well, from what I’ve gathered, roses are supposed to look pretty and make other people happy.”_

_The traveler frowned. “Yes,” he said, “but that doesn’t really answer my question. Do_ you _have a purpose?”_

_The little red rose hadn’t expected to be caught out. Reluctantly, it said, “I don’t think I’m a very good rose. I look pretty, but I’ve been told that I ask too many questions—so I can only assume that I’m not making many people very happy.”_

_The traveler found himself smiling. “Well,” he said, “perhaps my purpose can be answering all the questions you have.”_

_“Then you would not be a traveler!” said the little red rose. “You would be my knight.”_

_“Does one really earn knighthood by answering questions?” said the traveler._

_“No,” said the little red rose, “but if I call you a knight, then you won’t ever have to travel away from me.”_

_And so the traveler built a little house, with a little garden for the little rose, and they lived together in the forest. The children of a nearby village visited the traveler’s house for tea, and he answered their questions about the wide world outside their window, and he began to feel truly happy for the first time in his life._

_But one day, a beast showed up at the traveler’s door. It saw the little red rose, and because it was an evil thing, it decided that it wanted the little red rose for its own. So it stooped down in the garden and said, “Little red rose, do you ever wish for a life bigger than this? Do you ever wish you can be better, and do more, and help your traveler be happy?”_

_“Oh, I will always strive to be the best rose I can be!” said the little red rose. “I love my knight. He possesses more knowledge than I could ever hope to, and he made this lonely, terrible forest into a warm home for us to live together. But I do not need a life bigger than this, for my knight makes my life feel full.”_

_This was not the answer the beast had wanted. “If your life was not full,” it said, “would you wish for a life bigger than this?”_

_“Never,” said the little red rose. “All I need is my knight. Without him, I would be bereft.”_

* * *

Now, Faith’s childhood hadn’t exactly involved a lot of fairy tales, but she knew enough about them to know that usually they weren’t this…weird. Wasn’t the traveler supposed to be the hero? Why were they talking about the rose all of a sudden? And what the fuck was this whole thing about _purpose?_

“Hey, Lana?” said Faith.

“Not answering to that,” said the witch.

Faith rolled her eyes, then said, “This one doesn’t make narrative sense.”

“Did you finish it?” said the witch.

“…uh,” said Faith, and went back to reading.

* * *

_This was not the answer the beast had wanted. Anger in its heart, it knocked on the door of the traveler’s cottage._

_The traveler answered the door, and because he was a good man, he answered the door with a smile on his face. “You are welcome in my home, my friend,” he said. “How may I ease your burden today?”_

_And with a slice of its claw, the beast slit the traveler’s throat._

* * *

Faith nearly dropped the book. “What the FUCK,” she demanded, slamming it shut. “What the FUCK IS THIS BOOK.”

“Okay, give me that,” said the witch, a laugh in her voice. “That can’t possibly be as bad as you say.”

Obligingly, Faith jumped up, handing the book over to the witch with a dramatic shudder. “Your fairy tales are _bullshit,_ ” she informed her. “Is this Umbra fucking with me again? Because _shit,_ man. That thing is _fucked up.”_

“Which page?” said the witch.

“Uh—” Faith leaned forward, opening the book to the page in question.

The witch squinted. “Faith, this is about sustainable farming,” she said. “I can agree that it doesn’t exactly have a narrative structure, but it’s not exactly fucked-up fairy tale bullshit.”

 _“What?”_ said Faith, staring indignantly down at the clearly printed title. “Man, what the fuck are you talking about? It’s about—a beast! And some knight dude getting his throat cut!”

The witch flinched. In a very different tone of voice, she said, “Umbra. What the fuck are you doing.”

NOTHING, LADY WITCH, said Umbra. TRULY. THIS CASTLE IS YOUR CREATION, NOT MINE.

“Don’t _fucking_ lie to me,” hissed the witch, yanking the cloak up with unusual violence. Tossing the book to the side, she took two steps towards the nearby fireplace, holding Umbra above it. _Immediately,_ the cloak began to writhe, attempting to curl itself away from the flames. “Don’t you dare fuck with me like this,” the witch snarled. “Don’t you _dare._ You have _no right—”_

“What’s going on?” said Faith, unable to keep the quaver out of her voice.

Looking back at Faith, the witch’s face softened almost imperceptibly. “It’s not your problem,” she said, then turned back to Umbra. “It’s _your_ fucking problem, Umbra. Pull shit like this again and—”

AND WHAT? said Umbra. YOU ARE NOTHING. KILL ME, AND THIS YEAR HAS BEEN FOR NAUGHT.

The witch’s hands trembled.

YOU ARE TOO WEAK, said Umbra. I TELL THE TRUTH WHEN I SAY YOU ARE YOUR OWN WORST ENEMY. IF THE BOOK SHOWS THE SLAYER AN UNCOMFORTABLE TRUTH, IT IS PERHAPS BECAUSE YOU DO NOT TRULY WISH IT HIDDEN.

“No, I—” The witch’s voice broke.

Slowly, Faith picked up the book, tucking it into her jacket.

Stepping back, the witch set down Umbra a safe distance from the fire, then knelt down, awkwardly, on the floor. “Please leave, Faith,” she said, staring down at her skirt. “I-I need to be alone right now.”

For a moment, Faith honestly considered going up to the witch’s tower room—cuddling into the nest of pillows and reminding herself that the witch had trusted her in bigger ways than she’d _ever_ dreamed possible. But the weight of the book under her jacket reminded her that she still had something that needed hiding, and so she backed out of the library and headed up to her room instead.

Setting the book on the table, Faith found herself afraid to open it again. While she didn’t entirely understand why mentioning _the knight_ had evoked such a huge reaction from the witch, she was getting the sense that this was a hell of a lot bigger than she’d anticipated. Umbra had taunted the witch about a _knight_ before, hadn’t it? And—hadn’t there been another instance, forever ago? A manuscript that only Faith could read, talking about a _valiant knight struck down in battle?_

Something was up. Something big. And whatever it was, Faith needed to fix it—for the witch’s sake.


	8. finding you can change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy valentine's day!!!! part of me is like "valentine's day is arbitrary and ridiculous" but uhhhh the other part of me loves my girlfriend very much and is very excited to go to a cat cafe with her. so.

The book’s blue-green cover was worn, its pages thin and fragile, and the script—though readable—was just as intricate and weird as the prophecy from Giles’s collection. Faith was getting the sense that random flipping was the kind of thing this weird book appreciated, so she let the book fall open in the middle of the bed. Glancing over her shoulder—she didn’t want the witch walking in on her with this, after all—Faith sat down on the bed, beginning to read whatever it was that the book wanted her to read next.

* * *

**_The Sun and the Stars_ **

_Lady Guinevere, who ruled over the small province of Many Days in the Kingdom of the Stars, was a woman of extraordinary talent. Though it was her beauty that ensnared her many suitors, it was her intellect that kept her from becoming ensnared herself—as she had vowed that she would never marry a man who could not best her in a battle of wits._

_Many men demanded to know what this battle would be. Lady Guinevere would simply smile a beautiful smile, tug her hand away from the gentleman who had taken it, and say, “If you are asking me that question, you have already lost.”_

_Some men—usually kings—would become enraged at the woman’s audacity. Others would fall back, flustered and miserable, well aware that they had no idea what was going on in the incorrigible Lady Guinevere’s head. It was a general consensus throughout the kingdom that a man who managed to fluster Lady Guinevere had at least struck a blow in their battle of wits, but no such man seemed to exist._

_As the years went by, Lady Guinevere’s stance on the matter began to change. What had seemed like a brilliant idea when she was young and independent now trapped her from making any lasting romantic connections. She had been a novelty, once—the whip-smart beauty just waiting to be tamed—but now she was older, and therefore much less interesting to the men looking for a wife. Though she now wished to share her life with another, she still had yet to find someone who would treat her like an equal. Once playful and carefree, Lady Guinevere became sharp-tongued and miserable, and malicious whispers traveled through the kingdom and across the sea about the old maid who would surely die alone._

_On the other side of the ocean, in the Kingdom of the Sun, a disgraced knight served the royal family in an attempt to make up for the wrongs he had done the land. As a young man, he had been violent and unpredictable, starting a rebellion against a kind and noble queen simply because he could. Older and wiser now, he carried with him all of the young lives he had led to the slaughter—and they weighed heavily on his conscience. No woman would have a monster such as him, he thought, and so he had never made any attempt to court—not after he had pledged his life to serving a just cause, and certainly not now._

_But when he heard tell of a terrible, horrible woman, a woman who had trapped herself in her loneliness, Sir Bertram felt a call to action. He had given up on ever finding love for himself, and he doubted this Lady would want anything of him, but perhaps his attempts to court her would catch the attention of other competitive suitors. It would, after all, catch the attention of the Kingdom of the Stars—a lowly knight crossing the treacherous seas to come calling at Lady Guinevere’s door. She might not seem as terrible to the rest of the world if there was at least one person who thought her worth pursuing._

_And after obtaining the permission of the Queen, Sir Bertram set off for the Kingdom of the Stars._

_Lady Guinevere heard tell of Sir Bertram’s journey to see her, and was entirely unsure how to feel about it. This, she knew, was her last chance at love—but her pride would not allow her to settle for any random man after all this time. Finally, she came to a decision: if the knight was able to best her in a battle of wits, she would marry him on the spot. But if he was lacking, like all the rest, she would turn him away without a moment’s hesitation._

_When Sir Bertram finally arrived at Lady Guinevere’s lavish estate, he was indeed struck by her beauty—but what truly drew him to her was the look in her eyes. She was indeed a smart woman, he realized: smart enough to know the trap she had made for herself, and gentle enough to feel terrible that she would never share her life with another._

_Sir Bertram smiled, and he took Lady Guinevere’s hand, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles as though she was still a maid of eighteen. Unlike the many men who had come before him, he was in no hurry to win any battles: his years at war had taught him the fruitlessness of an impetuous crusade. Instead of demanding to begin their battle of wits, he asked if they might set their weapons down and retire to her lovely outdoor gardens._

_And just like that, Lady Guinevere knew that her years of waiting had not been pointless after all. But she had no intention of conceding the fight just yet—it was still a matter of pride, after all—and though she agreed to join him in the gardens, she did remind him that they would have their battle of wits in due time._

_“In due time,” Sir Bertram agreed. “I am in no rush.”_

_And so Lady Guinevere and Sir Bertram walked together in the gardens, trading stories about the lives they had led before meeting each other. Lady Guinevere taught Sir Bertram the wonders of a good book, and Sir Bertram taught Lady Guinevere how best to handle a sword, and for the first time in both of their lives, they found themselves nowhere near lonely—for Lady Guinevere’s hand was always in Sir Bertram’s, and she never tugged it away._

_At the end of the walk, Sir Bertram informed Lady Guinevere that he had a question for her—and the Lady’s stomach turned over, for if he was asking what their battle of wits would be, he had already lost it. Instead, her knight politely inquired as to who had won the battle, which took Lady Guinevere aback._

_For Sir Bertram knew a simple truth: falling in love was a battle of wits in its own way. But in love, with the right sparring partner, there would never be a clear winner. True love meant compromise, and finding common ground._

_“A stalemate,” said Lady Guinevere._

_“Exactly,” said Sir Bertram._

_And taking her true love’s hands in hers, Lady Guinevere tugged him into a tender kiss._

* * *

The next page was ripped out. Faith felt almost glad. Nothing good seemed to happen to knights in this book, and Sir Bertram seemed exactly like the kind of guy who’d die horribly in battle or something. Kind, gentle, caring—those were the kind of people who got their throats slit by asshole beasts.

“Lady Guinevere,” said Faith quietly, trying the name out. She could kind of imagine it fitting the witch. And if Umbra was right—if some of these books really _did_ hold half-hidden truths—then maybe this Sir Bertram guy was the whole reason the witch was so weird and sad. Her one chance at true love, snatched away—that’d be enough to drive absolutely anybody crazy. Especially someone as guarded as the witch.

There was a knock on the door. Hastily, Faith slammed the book shut, stowed it under her pillow, and called, “Come in!”

The witch entered. “Hello,” she said uncomfortably.

Faith was really fucking nervous that the witch might somehow be able to sense the book. “What’s up?” she asked, trying her best to look Not Shifty.

“I didn’t mean for you to see that,” said the witch, sitting down on the edge of Faith’s bed. “Especially after—I don’t know. You just…” She trailed off. Then, stilted, she said, “Just because there are things I can’t change, deals I can’t take back—that doesn’t mean that I have to spend the next few weeks locking you out.”

The witch was sitting, like, two centimeters away from the book. “Yeah, sure,” said Faith, trying her best not to flip the fuck out. “Totally. Hundred percent.”

The witch frowned, looking a mixture of concerned and guilty. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m great,” said Faith hastily. “Seriously. I’m just catching up on some reading—I mean TV—so if I could maybe have the room back to myself? If that’s okay?”

“Oh,” said the witch, cheeks going black. “Of course. I’ll be up in my tower if you need anything.” She got up from the bed, hesitated a moment, then left the room, looking less terrifying and more…miserable.

Now that there wasn’t any risk of the witch discovering the book, Faith felt kind of terrible. The witch had been trying to reach out to her, and what had Faith done? Acted all shifty and panicky and weird and probably made the witch feel _worse._ Somehow, she had to fix this.

“That’s what the book is for,” she reminded herself out loud, and it made her feel a tiny bit better. Though it was clear she’d never admit to it, the witch was in a tight spot, and somehow, this book held the key to piecing her secrets together. “Hey, wait,” said Faith suddenly. “Castle. Can I have, like, a notebook? And something to write with?”

A pad and pen fell through the ceiling, bonking her on the head. “Ow!” said Faith, laughing. “Thanks, man.” She picked up the pen, scribbling down her notes.

_Lady ~~Guini~~ ~~Gueni~~ ~~Guinn~~ Gwen = witch?_

_Sir Bertram = knight?_

_witch in love with knight_

_knight died — killed by a monster, probably_

Okay. That seemed like a pretty good starting point. Faith opened the book again—or tried to. It was pretty much glued shut. “Seriously, dude?” she burst out, shaking the book. “You were working _two seconds ago!”_ God, she fucking _hated_ magic.

But then she remembered what Umbra had said to the witch. YOU ARE YOUR OWN WORST ENEMY. Maybe the witch wasn’t _intentionally_ trying to reveal all this stuff to Faith, but it was beginning to seem like the witch’s _magic_ had other ideas about what Faith was allowed to know. In her own weird way, the witch was sending a distress call—and it was up to Faith to put the pieces together.

And right now, it kinda seemed like the book wasn’t where Faith was supposed to be looking. Right now, it seemed like Faith was going to have to go back to her usual strategy of random guesswork. Tucking the book back under her pillow, Faith exited her bedroom, finding herself grateful—for the first time ever—that the witch was nowhere to be seen. Trying the door nearest to her, she found it stuck—but this time, she knew what that meant. Dropping her hand, she tried the next door. It didn’t open. She continued on.

Boring work? Definitely. But every time Faith felt even a little bit frustrated, she thought of the witch sitting on the floor of the library, dark skirt spread out around her like a flower as she stared down at her hands. The memory of the tears in the witch’s eyes reminded Faith of a simple truth: she was doing this for a bigger reason than an attempt to distract herself, or prove herself, or make herself feel bigger than she was—and because of that, she couldn’t afford to get angry. Anger meant she got sloppy, and nothing more than perfection was gonna cut it if she was going up in her own battle of wits against the witch. Reaching the stairwell, Faith descended the stairs—

—and noticed something weird. The landing to the first floor looked just as well-lit as always, but now the stairs seemed to go down farther than before. At the bottom of the stairs, Faith thought she could make out the beginnings of a dimly lit hallway that _none_ of her castle explorations had ever revealed to her.

She found herself more nervous than she’d expected to be. “Thanks,” said Faith softly, patting the wall, and continued down into the darkness.

Instead of being lit by torches, this hallway was lit by floating globes of strange violet light—the same color as the witch’s eyes, Faith realized—and had no doors but one. At the very end of the hallway, a single door stood open, full of only darkness.

 _The witch would never let anything bad happen to me,_ Faith reminded herself. It was kinda hard to convince herself of that in the face of the endless darkness, though. Gritting her teeth, Faith strode forward, continuing through the hallway and into the dark room.

The door swung shut behind her.

 _Well, great,_ Faith thought. _This is how I die._

But then, out of nowhere, a single pinprick of violet light appeared in the middle of the room, expanding slowly into another one of those weird little orbs. As Faith’s eyes adjusted to the light, she took in the room around her.

The entire room was shaped like a perfect circle. On the floor was a weird mosaic that looked a little—no, a _lot_ like one of those magical circles, complete with runes, sigils, and complicated lines that all converged in the middle of the room. And in the middle of the room—Faith squinted, and then her stomach turned over. In the middle of the room was some kind of big stone bier, and on top of it was something covered in a bloodstained blue sheet: something shaped _exactly_ like a body.

“Fuck,” Faith whispered. Suddenly, this seemed way scarier than she’d expected. Why had she thought she’d be able to fix this? She wasn’t Buffy Summers—she wasn’t the Chosen One. No matter what the Slayer lineage said, Buffy was still the one all the prophecies were about. Faith was just some dumb kid from Boston who could punch things hard enough to break them. How the fuck was she supposed to help a witch with a body in the basement?

The door opened again, and Faith felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned, eyes wide, and saw the witch—and the witch didn’t look mad. Carefully, she tugged Faith out of the room, waving a hand to make the big door swing shut. “You know, you really shouldn’t be down here,” the witch said, almost conversationally. “I’ve got a lot of warning flares set up around this place. Pretty much all of my magical alarms went off.”

“Whose body is that?” said Faith, her voice shaking.

The witch’s mouth trembled. “You know I can’t tell you that,” she said.

“But—”

“I don’t think you want to be down here for much longer,” said the witch matter-of-factly. “It’s not a very good place to be.”

“Why aren’t you mad?” said Faith tentatively.

“Faith,” said the witch, a dry laugh in her voice, “in the short time I’ve known you, you’ve shown up in pretty much every single place you weren’t supposed to be. I assumed it was only a matter of time before you found your way down here.”

Faith swallowed, hard. She kept on thinking about that one fairy tale—or maybe it was both of them. The traveler and the rose, the lady and the knight—whoever it was, somebody very important and very loved had died in the witch’s arms. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, and without really thinking about it, she stood on tiptoe to pull the witch into an awkward hug.

The witch stiffened in her arms. Faith’s stomach turned. _Obviously_ the witch wasn’t gonna want to hug her. This had been such a stupid idea. But just as Faith was about to pull back, she felt the witch’s arms wrap clumsily around her in return. It was only for a second, and the witch pulled back almost immediately—but the witch had hugged her back.

 _“Boundaries,_ Faith,” said the witch, who was blushing _furiously._ It made her look kind of like a corpse.

Faith grinned. “You _hugged_ me,” she said, well aware of the fact that she was pushing her luck. “You _lo-ove_ me.”

“Jesus Christ, I’m never gonna live this down,” said the witch, hurrying down the hall as quickly as she could.

Faith fell into step with her. “You think I’m _amazing,”_ she continued happily. “You think I _make good points—_ ”

“I am never complimenting you again.”

“Now _that’s_ a lie.”

“I’m _evil!_ I’m allowed to lie!”

“So you’re saying you _are_ gonna compliment me again?” said Faith innocently.

“…we’re going to go get some food,” said the witch.

* * *

Apparently, the musty, dusty old kitchen could become a whole lot less musty and dusty really fast with the witch around. With a wave of the witch’s hand, the kitchen was spotless and sparkling, enough so that Faith could swing herself up to sit on the counter without getting dust all over her nice jeans. “Nifty,” she said. “What’s for dinner? Can it be pizza?”

“I don’t think anyone in Sunnydale delivers to the pocket dimension,” said the witch dryly.

“I could go and get some,” said Faith impulsively. At the witch’s surprised expression, she elaborated, “I mean, you’ve spent a _good_ chunk of time in this castle, right? Doesn’t allow for a whole lot of time to pig out on pizza, and honestly, I think you’re missing out. Especially since—”

“Faith,” said the witch, looking a little guilty. “You’re…you can’t leave this castle.”

“Huh?” It took a moment for Faith to remember. “Oh,” she said. Then, hopefully, “But what if I promised that I’d come back?”

“It’s not really my choice,” said the witch quietly. “The magic’s pretty binding. There’s really no loophole.”

I AM A LOOPHOLE, Umbra offered. I AM THE MAGICS. LEAVE THE CASTLE WITH ME AROUND YOU AND YOU MAY ACQUIRE ALL THE PIZZA YOU WISH.

“Sure thing, Umbra,” said Faith, rolling her eyes. “I _totally_ trust you not to murder me as soon as I put that cloak on. I think I’ll take my chances with the witch’s cooking.”

“I’m sorry, you think I’m going to _cook?”_ said the witch, an incredulous laugh in her voice. “You’ve had my soup. Whatever we’re having right now is _definitely_ going to be helped along with magic.”

“Chicken,” said Faith.

 _“Listen,”_ said the witch, pointing at Faith. “You should be thanking me for sparing us all from the horrors I might wreak if left alone in this kitchen.”

“Shouldn’t witches be able to brew shit?”

“I missed the day they were teaching brewing in witch school,” the witch volleyed back, crossing the room to open what—now that the dust and grime had been removed— looked a hell of a lot like a modern refrigerator. “Okay. You want pizza, right?” She screwed up her face, concentrating, and pulled an entire pizza box out of the refrigerator. “It’s going to be a little cold, but I can try and warm it up.”

“Yeah, I’m never leaving this castle,” said Faith. “I’m just gonna live here forever.”

As she placed the pizza box down on the counter, the witch gave Faith a small, sad smile. “You’d get bored of that in no time,” she said.

“Never,” said Faith, and meant it. “You’re the coolest, Elaine.”

The witch’s smile became a smile-eyeroll hybrid. _“Elaine?”_

“Kinda Camelot, right?” said Faith, testing the waters. She didn’t know a lot about King Arthur, but she _did_ know his wife’s name—and maybe guessing something a step away from _Guinevere_ might elicit a telling reaction from the witch.

“I’ve always liked Arthurian legends,” said the witch distantly. “A little before my time, but…” She trailed off.

“Before your time?” said Faith, trying to keep her tone as nonchalant and non-suspicious as possible. “You live in a fuckin’ castle. I wouldn’t exactly peg you as a twentieth-century gal.”

The witch arched an eyebrow. “The castle’s mostly an aesthetic choice,” she said. “It’s not exactly like I went around wearing clingy, witchy dresses back before I was a witch.”

“So you weren’t always a witch,” said Faith slowly.

Around the witch’s shoulders, Umbra rustled in a way that seemed almost like a warning. The witch tugged sharply on it, adjusting it until it was still, and said, “I wouldn’t say that. More like…I used to practice part-time, and when I decided to step into the big leagues, I thought that my image needed a little bit of an upgrade.”

“A bad bitch,” said Faith.

“Precisely.” The witch opened the pizza box, then pointed at the pizza. _“Incendium,”_ she said. The pizza caught on fire. “Oh, _fuck—”_

“Points for the _not-from-the-nineties_ theory,” said Faith helpfully, watching with amusement as the witch attempted to stifle the flames. “Doesn’t have a microwave to reheat the pizza like a normal person.”

 _“I don’t usually have to reheat food!”_ said the witch. “It’s not like there are spells that are able to only _slightly_ warm things up—”

I CAN HELP, said Umbra.

“Fuck you,” said the witch. “I have this under control. _Aqua!”_ A jet of water shot out of her fingertip, and the flames fizzled out, leaving a slightly burned, slightly soggy, definitely-warm pizza. “Goddamn it. Okay. This is still…this is definitely not edible.”

“So,” said Faith. “If you’re not from the nineties and you’re not from medieval times, when _are_ you from?”

“Hmm,” said the witch. “When do _you_ think I’m from?”

“I flunked out of history, Gwen, give me a break,” said Faith.

The witch gave Faith a funny look. “Gwen?” she said.

“What?” said Faith, heart pounding. “That name ring a bell?”

With a small shake of her head, the witch turned back to the pizza, still looking a little bothered.

Faith’s stomach flipped over: the book had been _right_ on the money. _Lady Guinevere,_ she thought to herself, trying it out again. _Lady Guinevere. Lady Gwen._ It didn’t _exactly_ fit the witch, but Faith guessed that that might be because she’d just gotten used to calling her _the witch._ Still, she had to move on from the name, or the witch— _Lady Gwen—_ might get a little suspicious. “Am I _ever_ gonna get it right?” she inquired.

“We keep on circling back to this,” said the witch, who Faith _refused_ to think of as _Lady Gwen_ just yet. “I don’t _have_ a name.”

 _Guinevere,_ Faith thought again, but the name was too distinctive and dangerous for her to throw in the witch’s direction just yet. “And I’m not gonna give up on figuring it out,” she shot back, bumping her shoulder against the witch’s. “Pass me a slice?”

“God. Don’t eat that.” The witch shut the box. “We’re having something else.”

“I’ve lived off of worse than warm, soggy pizza—!”

“Not under my roof, Faith. You’re a growing girl.”

Something about the reproving, half-exasperated way the witch said that made Faith grin, ducking her head and staring down at her knees. When she looked up again, the witch was kind of smiling too. “What _ever,_ ” said Faith. “As long as it’s not a salad.”

“I’m hearing kale,” said the witch. “Am I hearing kale?”

“You _are_ evil,” said Faith disbelievingly, and the witch actually laughed at that.


	9. it doesn't matter now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOTS of stuff this chapter. even more NEXT chapter. this is where things start going pretty definitively off the rails.

Faith went up to the witch’s tower room after dinner. The witch was looking at the Scoobies through her crystal ball again, but it didn’t really make Faith’s chest seize up anymore—she had bigger fish to fry than her unfinished business with Buffy. Right now, all she was thinking about was how the hell to best help the witch—which was pretty fuckin’ difficult, given that she was only getting bits and pieces of information from that cryptic little book.

“What’s goin’ on with them?” Faith asked, peering over the witch’s shoulder.

The witch looked somewhat surprised. “You were a hell of a lot more upset the last time you saw them.”

“Yeah, well.” Faith knocked her shoulder against the witch’s, and received a crooked smile in return. “I had some time to cool off. What’re they doing?”

“Who do you want to see?” said the witch.

Faith bit her lip.

“I can show you Buffy,” said the witch, almost gently. “If you’d like.”

Not trusting herself to speak, Faith nodded.

Murmuring yet another weird Latin phrase, the witch passed her hands over the crystal ball. The image shifted, then zoomed in on Buffy—wearing a pastel blue tank top, her hair swept up in a high ponytail, her eyes full of determination as she spoke to the group. _“We’re gonna have to take the fight to him if it continues like this,”_ she was saying. _“Now, we don’t know a lot about any weaknesses he might have—”_

 _“Here’s a take,”_ said Xander from the background. _“Maybe he doesn’t have any weaknesses. We ever thought of that?”_

 _“Xander,”_ said Willow’s reproving voice.

Faith felt the witch’s hand on her shoulder. Almost unconsciously, she turned her face away from the crystal ball, tucking herself into the witch’s side. Again, she felt the witch freeze—and again, she felt the witch tentatively reciprocate, tugging Faith closer into a careful hug. “It’s okay,” said the witch quietly. “I can turn it off, if you want.”

Faith sniffled, a lump in her throat. All of a sudden, she didn’t feel like a bad bitch—she just felt like Faith. “I miss them,” she said, clumsily; she was on the verge of beginning to really cry.

“I know,” said the witch.

Faith sniffled again, then said, “Don’t you get lonely up in this castle?”

She felt the witch’s fingers card gently through her hair. “I mean, you take up a _lot_ of space in this castle,” said the witch. “Kinda hard to be lonely when there’s someone banging on the walls with a metal helmet.”

That made Faith laugh a little wetly. Raising her head to look at the witch, she saw no trace of electric violet in the witch’s eyes: the eyes looking down at her were brown, and soft. “You’re not really all that evil, are you?” said Faith.

“Well,” said the witch. “Neither are you.” She squeezed Faith again, then stepped back, turning off the crystal ball with a wave of her hand. “You must be getting tired. Do you need to go to sleep?”

Honestly, the day had been pretty fuckin’ taxing. With some relief, Faith nodded, half-staggering over to the familiarly comfortable nest of pillows in the window. Sitting down on the edge of said nest, she said tentatively, “Are you gonna get some sleep? You probably need some too.”

The witch gave Faith a wry smile and waved her hand again. Faith felt a rush of warmth as she watched the net of magic form itself next to her little nest: she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed this little routine. “Hold on,” said the witch suddenly, and snapped her fingers, surrounding herself in a rush of dark magic.

 _“Witch—!”_ said Faith a little more loudly than she’d expected, panic spiking.

The darkness cleared: the witch was now wearing a tank top and sweatpants, her long, raven-black hair swept up into some kind of weird, braided updo. “Faith, I’m _fine,”_ she said, amusement giving way to genuine reassurance when she saw how affected Faith was. “I’m a creature of darkness, remember?”

“You said you weren’t always a witch,” said Faith. “And…” She trailed off. “And I worry about you sometimes.”

The witch’s smile softened as she sat down on the magical net. Reaching out, she carefully tucked a strand of hair behind Faith’s ear—and a small, lonely part of Faith’s heart did a little hop-skip at the gently maternal touch. “It means a lot to me that you do,” she said, “but I’d prefer if you didn’t. I’m an adult. I’ve made my choices.”

Faith swallowed—and then she said what she’d been thinking for the last few days. “But what if they end up killing you?”

The easy smile on the witch’s face flickered. Without a word, she let her hand drop, lying down on her side so that she was facing Faith. Absently, she said, “You should get some sleep, Faith. No need to worry about me.”

“Yeah, but no one else is here to do that but Umbra,” said Faith. “And Umbra’s psychotic.”

SAY THAT AGAIN AND I WILL CONSUME YOUR FLESH, said Umbra.

“Case in point,” said Faith.

The witch smiled—just a little—and moved forward on the net, resting her arm on the pillows. Faith hesitated, then moved tentatively forward as well, resting her head on the witch’s arm. When the witch didn’t pull away, Faith felt something—something bigger than simple warmth. It took her a moment to label it, and when she did, it knocked her sideways.

Safety.

_Trust._

_THE LADY WITCH TRUSTS YOU IMPLICITLY,_ Umbra had said—but bigger than that, Faith thought, was the fact that she trusted the witch just as much. “Hey, witch?” she mumbled, snuggling into the blanket. “Can I stay here after the six weeks are up?”

The witch was silent for a long time. Then, a catch in her voice, she said, “You can stay here as long as you want, Faith.”

“As long as I want?”

“As long as you want.”

“Mmkay,” said Faith, and she was still smiling as she fell asleep.

* * *

The witch’s sleep spell usually held off all dreams, good or bad—but Faith had fallen asleep so easily and comfortably that she hadn’t _needed_ the extra help. She’d felt so happy about it, at the time: she’d thought it meant that she was getting better. She’d thought it meant that maybe she was closer to being less bad-bitch and more…Faith.

Which was why it _fucking sucked_ to find herself once again standing in the castle courtyard, sword in hand, surrounded on all sides by dead shadow guys.

“Seriously?” said Faith indignantly. This kind of lucid dream meant a _Slayer_ dream, and she fuckin’ hated those. It almost always meant that something big was on the cusp of going down. “Man, I’m off the clock! This shit is Buffy’s job now.”

A beam of unnatural light hit Faith in the face. Squinting, she looked up, and saw a bright purple glow emanating from the window of the witch’s tower. “Witch?” she called, but her voice came out distorted—it sounded a little like she’d said something else.

The scene changed, and suddenly Faith was standing in front of the witch in the tower room, Umbra rising up from around the witch’s shoulders. The witch’s eyes were full of darkness, her face twisted in a horrible, plastic smile that didn’t look like her at all. When she spoke, it was Umbra’s voice: FULFILL YOUR DESTINY, SLAYER. DO WHAT MUST BE DONE.

Faith’s sword arm moved of its own volition. In one swift motion, as neatly as she staked vamps, the witch was speared on Faith’s sword—and for just a moment, her eyes flickered back into that now-familiar brown. “Faith,” she said softly, almost tenderly, and dissolved into nothing.

“No,” said Faith. “NO—”

* * *

 _“NO, NO, I WON’T!”_ Faith screamed, jerking awake and getting tangled in the blankets. She didn’t care. She couldn’t erase that dream from her mind. A _Slayer_ dream, too, which meant that it _meant_ something, and god, what if it meant—what if it meant that she had to be the bigger, better person and kill the witch for the sake of the world? What if it meant that the witch was a danger—or, worse, that the witch was _in_ danger, and Faith would have to kill her to protect her? _“NO—”_ She was sobbing, now, big ugly sobs that shook her entire body.

“Faith. _Faith!”_ The witch pulled her into a fierce hug, rocking her and stroking her hair. “Shh-shh-shh, it was just a nightmare—”

Faith buried her face in the witch’s shoulder, inhaling—dead flowers, and old books, and _home._ “Don’t go,” she sobbed. “Don’t go away. I need you. Please.”

The witch drew in a sobbing breath, tangling her fingers in Faith’s hair. “Shh,” she whispered. “Do you want me to put you to sleep?”

 _“No—”_ Faith pulled her tear-stained face up to look at the witch, then bumped her forehead against the witch’s. “Just don’t go,” she whispered. “Just—just don’t leave me. Everybody leaves or dies or both a-and I can’t—”

Slowly, the witch lowered Faith back down into the pillows, then lay down next to her, letting Faith huddle against her under the covers. She was holding Faith just as tightly as Faith was holding her. Then she said, “I can tell you a story, if that helps distract you.”

“I don’t want some happy-ending bullshit,” Faith spat, the vitriol of her words lessened by the fact that she was still crying pretty hard.

“Okay,” said the witch. Her voice trembled. “Then I’ll give you something a little more realistic.”

“Okay!”

“Okay.”

“…okay,” said Faith, and hid her face in the witch’s shoulder.

The witch was silent for a few minutes. Then, very carefully, she said, “Once upon a time, there was…a knight.”

Faith froze.

“A very brave, very kind, very good knight,” said the witch. “He wasn’t fighting dragons for the glory, or the attention, or to be the hero: he was fighting dragons because he wanted to keep people safe. And…the world he lived in wasn’t a world that let good people stay alive.”

 _Sir Bertram,_ Faith thought, raising her head to look at the witch. It had to be. The miserable, wistful expression on the witch’s face was one Faith knew all too fuckin’ well: the expression of someone who _knew_ they weren’t half as good as the person they loved. “What happened?” she said quietly.

“He died,” said the witch. She swallowed, then corrected herself: “He was _killed._ A monster killed him.”

Faith swallowed. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” said the witch.

“This is kinda a fucked-up story,” said Faith. “Is that where it ends?”

“…no,” said the witch. “There was—a lady. The knight’s lady.” She sniffled, running a hand through Faith’s hair. “She was…she loved the knight more than anything. He’d come to her when she’d expected to spend the rest of her life alone. Losing him the way she did…” She trailed off.

“What happened to the lady?” said Faith, well aware that she was pressing her luck.

The witch was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “I killed her.”

 _That_ took Faith aback. “What?”

The witch let out a tired breath. Carefully, she said, “Faith, I think you should go to sleep.”

“You _so_ didn’t kill her,” Faith grumbled, annoyed. “You just don’t wanna tell me the rest of that story. I bet it’s some kinda Darth Vader thing or something.”

“Darth Vader?” the witch repeated.

“All _oh, Luke, your father was killed by Darth Vader,_ and then it turns out that the dude’s dad _is_ Darth Vader, which only _technically_ counts as—”

“Am I gonna have to put you to sleep?” said the witch.

The thought of some properly dreamless sleep _really_ appealed to Faith. “Yeah,” she said, tilting her head up. “Do that.”

With a small, exhausted smile, the witch gently bopped Faith on the nose with her fingertip. _“Filia mea,”_ she said. Then, _“Somnus,”_ and everything faded away.

* * *

When Faith woke up, she was still thinking about the half-finished story the witch had told her. It wasn’t anything new—it had only confirmed her already well-supported hypothesis. Once upon a time, the witch had been a lady in love with a knight, and the knight had died in a way that had broken her heart. But there was still a _big_ gap between then and now: Lady Gwen hadn’t been described as a witch, and she _definitely_ hadn’t had a weird, annoying demon cloak that wanted to kill pretty much everything.

Faith needed to fill in the blanks.

The book had always served her well, so after breakfast with the witch, Faith took off the amethyst necklace and found herself back in her room. Opening the book, however, she was met with an unpleasant surprise: she couldn’t seem to open to a fairy tale in the book that didn’t have the first page ripped out. “What the fuck?” she muttered, paging through—and suddenly she noticed something _else._ Every single page in the book was the _same page._

* * *

_But the disciple’s attempt to bring back the knight was flawed: only true love’s kiss could call back the dead. With evil running through her veins, there was no way she could restore the knight to full strength—as she would die in the process._

_Foolhardy and reckless, the disciple pressed an impetuous kiss to the knight’s lips, and the darkness within her was burned alive by the goodness of the man she had attempted to pervert. As the disciple fell to her knees, the knight awoke, just as good and kind as he had always been._

_Darkness will never triumph over light._

_THE END_

* * *

Wait A Fucking Second.

Rapid, disjointed concepts flashed through Faith’s mind. The stories: day and night, dark and light, witch and knight. The witch’s black blush. Umbra’s tendrils closing in on the witch, consuming her. Umbra’s deep, whispery voice: _DISOBEY ME, AND YOUR KNIGHT LIES STILL EVERMORE._ The witch’s frustration with Umbra, even as she let it shame her for being weak, powerless, pointless. The witch saying Faith was a _risk to what she was trying to do._

The body in the basement, wrapped in a bloodied blue sheet.

“Oh, god,” Faith whispered, and felt like she was going to be sick. The witch was trying to _bring back her knight._ The witch was trying to bring back her knight, and it wasn’t going to work, and Umbra was going to consume the witch entirely and get the witch killed in the process. And there was no way for Faith to reason with the witch, because it was _very fucking clear_ that the witch wasn’t able to be reasoned with when it came to her knight.

 _Six weeks,_ the witch had said. Faith didn’t know how many of those weeks had passed, but she’d bet that most of them were up—and if she was right—if this _book_ was right—

“Fuck,” Faith whispered tearfully. “Fuck, fuck, motherfucking _fuck—”_ She pressed her hands to her face, doing her best to stifle her tears. She had _no idea_ how to fix this. She knew she wasn’t going to be able to convince the witch to stop—she’d never been all that great at that. She knew that Umbra was probably involved in this _somehow—_ hell, Umbra was probably the entire reason that the witch had enough power to bring back the dead in the first place. She knew—

God.

She knew that the witch probably _knew_ that this attempt to bring back her knight would kill her, because the witch had as good as said it. _By my calculations, in six weeks, my secrets will be a moot point._ And suddenly, all of their time in the castle made sense in the worst of ways: the sadness in the witch’s eyes. The way the witch had kept on trying to push Faith away. Maybe Faith had promised not to make good on her death wish, but the witch had never had any intention of keeping _her_ word.

Something about that hurt more than _any_ spell the witch could have thrown at her. In a matter of days, the witch was going to throw away her life for a knight long dead, and Faith would be alone all over again. Faith would be alone, _again,_ because she wasn’t good enough.

“Fuck that,” she whispered, lowering her hands. Rage was boiling within her. If the witch wasn’t willing to save herself—well, then, Faith was going to fucking _drag_ the witch to safety, and she didn’t care _what_ the witch thought. _“Fuck_ that.”

Slamming the book shut, Faith yanked open her dresser, changing into an outfit that made her feel a little more badass: jeans, a muscle tank, a leather jacket, and some extra-stompy combat boots. Checking her reflection in the mirror only made her feel worse: she looked like she had in _Sunnydale._ Angry, hurting, and about to knock some fuckin’ heads, and—that wasn’t the person she liked being anymore. She wanted to be the kid who got fussed over by the witch. She wanted to be the witch’s top priority. She wanted—

Fuck.

Faith let out a hiccupy breath and almost started crying again. She wanted so _badly_ to pretend that she was the witch’s kid. But there wasn’t time to pretend anymore.

* * *

The witch was asleep in the tower room, curled up in her usual nest of magic. It occurred to Faith that the witch might not have gotten _any_ sleep after her nightmare, and that made her stomach twist: that seemed like something that moms might do too. She leaned down to tuck Umbra closer around the witch—

YOU LOOK UPSET, SLAYER, said Umbra. IS SOMETHING THE MATTER?

“Don’t fuckin’ taunt me, asshole,” Faith spat, and couldn’t stop the tears from springing to her eyes again. “I know what you did to her.”

AH, said Umbra. I SUSPECTED YOU WOULD PIECE IT TOGETHER. THE LADY WITCH SEEMED TO THINK YOU MIGHT NOT—

Faith yanked Umbra up and off of the witch. It felt weird and slippery in her hands—more like Silly Putty than a cloak—and she had to remind herself not to drop it. “Don’t fuck with me,” she hissed, trying to mimic the witch’s vicious fury from the library. “I _don’t_ need any more of this cryptic bullshit. The witch is gonna _die_ because of you, isn’t she?”

ALL THINGS DIE, said Umbra.

Faith tightened her grip on it. It didn’t seem as fazed as she wanted it to be. _“Tell_ me!” she demanded.

AND WHY DO YOU WANT TO KNOW? said Umbra. TO HELP HER? SAVE HER?

Faith’s hands shook; she clenched her fists tighter around Umbra. “I-I,” she stammered, a lump in her throat, and did her best to steel herself. “So what if I do?”

I CAN HELP YOU, said Umbra.

“Like I’d take _your_ help,” Faith shot back. “You’re the reason the witch needs help in the first place!”

THAT MAY BE TRUE, said Umbra, BUT HOW WOULD YOU KNOW FOR CERTAIN? ALL YOU HAVE ARE BITS AND PIECES OF INCONCLUSIVE EVIDENCE.

“But I—” Umbra’s words had hit harder than Faith had expected them to. “She said—”

FAIRY TALES AND TEARY EYES, said Umbra. NOTHING THAT MIGHT GIVE YOU A WAY TO SAVE THE LADY WITCH.

“There’s no fuckin’ _way_ you’d help me _save_ her,” snapped Faith. It came out almost sobbing, and she _hated_ that. “Don’t you _want_ her to suffer? Haven’t you _said_ she’s your—your faithful servant or whatever?”

I INDEED WISH FOR HER TO SUFFER, Umbra agreed. BUT UNLIKE YOUR LADY WITCH, I CAN PROMISE YOU FULL HONESTY IF YOU ASK THE RIGHT QUESTIONS.

Faith swallowed, daring a glance in the witch’s direction. But the witch, still plainly exhausted from the previous night, still hadn’t moved from her magical nest. “Okay,” she said, loosening her grip on Umbra. It pulled itself up in her hands, and her stomach turned over: glowing violet eyes had appeared in the shadowed hood of the cloak. “You say you’ll answer all my questions honestly? What’s the witch gotten herself into?”

YOU DID NOT TAKE MY EARLIER DEAL, said Umbra.

“What—” And then Faith remembered: slamming the door, hard, in response to Umbra’s offer. “So you’re just not gonna tell me _anything?”_

NOT IN REGARDS TO WHAT I KNOW OF THE LADY WITCH, said Umbra.

Faith pressed her lips together, resisting the temptation to just start squeezing Umbra again. It wouldn’t do that much, after all. “Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “If you aren’t gonna tell me anything about the _lady witch,_ how the hell am I supposed to find anything out about her?”

AH, said Umbra, and its violet eyes glowed, bright and malevolent. AND NOW YOU ARE ASKING THE EXACT RIGHT QUESTIONS.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

HERE IS A QUESTION OF MY OWN, SLAYER, said Umbra. WHEN YOU WORKED ALONGSIDE THE OTHER CHOSEN ONE—THE GOLDEN-HAIRED SUMMER CHILD—WHERE DID YOU GO WHEN THERE WERE QUESTIONS THAT NEEDED ANSWERING?

“That’s a stupid fuckin’ question,” said Faith irritably. “I’m stuck in this castle. I can’t exactly go to the Sunnydale High library and look for answers—”

Dark tendrils wrapped themselves purposefully around her, and suddenly, Umbra was resting on Faith’s shoulders. She swayed, feeling raw, powerful magic course through her in a way she had _never_ felt before.

I AM A LOOPHOLE, said Umbra. I AM THE MAGICS. LEAVE THE CASTLE WITH ME AROUND YOU AND THE LADY WITCH’S SPELL WILL NOT BIND YOU—YOU WILL STILL BE WITHIN MY DOMAIN.

Faith looked apprehensively down at the slumbering witch. Tentatively, she said, “What happens if she wakes up?”

SHE WILL BELIEVE YOU GONE, said Umbra. SHE WILL THINK YOU HAVE BETRAYED HER IN AN ATTEMPT TO PROTECT HER FROM HERSELF. WHATEVER AFFECTION SHE HARBORS FOR YOU—SHE WILL HARBOR IT NO LONGER.

Faith swallowed. She stepped over to the witch, extending a shaking hand, and lightly touched the witch’s cheek. The witch stirred with a sigh, and mumbled something Faith couldn’t make out—and she didn’t look scary or all-powerful. She just kind of looked like a person.

_WHATEVER AFFECTION SHE HARBORS FOR YOU—_

_“Somnus,”_ said Faith.


	10. transformation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is one of my favorites. i'm sure y'all can guess why.
> 
> DEFINITE warnings for violence, tho.

The Sunnydale High library looked different with all the lights out. Faith had never set foot in the place without Giles or Buffy present, and doing so now made this entire thing feel like ten times more illicit. She had _no_ idea what she’d do if she ended up caught by one of the Scoobies, and she kept on thinking about Giles’s habit of late-night library antics, and the whole thing had her more on edge than she’d ever been in her _entire life._

Gritting her teeth, Faith tried to take a calming breath and call back the reason she was doing this in the first place—but _that_ didn’t help. That just turned her thoughts to the witch, who was right now in a magically-induced sleep that could end at any moment. And then the witch would wake up, and find Faith _and_ Umbra gone, and—

Hold on.

“You son of a bitch,” said Faith, yanking Umbra off her shoulders. Instantly, the crushing worry faded, replaced with a furious anger. “You _asshole._ Are you _trying_ to make me freak out?”

I FEED ON FEAR, said Umbra.

“Well, get your snacking done somewhere else!” snapped Faith, holding Umbra awkwardly to her chest as she stepped into Giles’s office. Putting it down didn’t seem like the best idea, but wearing it _definitely_ wasn’t an option—so she was just going to have to go with this weird middle ground. She flicked on the light.

Giles’s office, if Faith remembered correctly, was where all the weird prophecy stuff would probably be. According to Buffy, he had a habit of keeping them on hand and translating them for funsies. _God,_ that man needed a girlfriend. “Where do I start looking?” she said warily.

TRY THE TOP DRAWER, said Umbra.

“Is that where the missing pages are?”

I DON’T KNOW, said Umbra. AND YET FOR SOME REASON YOU ARE ASKING ME, SO I AM PROVIDING SUGGESTIONS. TRY THE TOP DRAWER. HAVE YOU EVER BROKEN IN ANYWHERE BEFORE?

“You really _are_ a little bastard,” said Faith. “You’re way more fun when you’re making the _witch’s_ life miserable.”

Umbra’s glowing violet eyes opened slowly, fixing Faith with a long, purposeful stare. I COULDN’T AGREE MORE.

Faith didn’t really feel like finding out what _that_ meant. Setting Umbra down on the desk, she opened the top drawer, finding a meticulously organized array of prophecies in various stacks. One stack had a Post-It attached that read _relevant,_ another had a Post-It attached that read _unimportant,_ and a third had a Post-It attached that read _unreadable._

“So there _is_ a too-scrawly-to-read pile,” said Faith, rolling her eyes. “You’re such a fuckin’ liar, Giles.” She picked up the pile marked _unreadable_ (she seemed to be the only one able to read the weird fairytale prophecies, after all) and—stopped. There was something underneath it. A tiny little article, clearly cut out of the morning paper.

* * *

_Jenny Calendar, 34, was found dead in her partner's apartment late last Wednesday. The scene was littered with rose petals, and a shattered bottle of champagne was reportedly dropped by Rupert Giles, her partner, upon finding the body. Any information about this crime—_

* * *

Faith stopped reading. Suddenly, she felt a hell of a lot less like snooping around Giles’s office. She’d known that his girlfriend had died, but she had had _no_ idea that Buffy’s fucked-up boyfriend had set up some kind of sick tableau with the body as a centerpiece—and she’d never wanted to know that Giles had had to go through something like that. Hastily, she shut the drawer, then spread the papers across Giles’s desk, grateful that she was here for a reason bigger than that dead girlfriend of his.

Most of the prophecies really _were_ unreadable. Splotches of ink, indecipherable handwriting, ruined paper—Faith set those carefully aside, not wanting to add _destroying Giles’s favorite prophecy collection_ to her long list of crimes. There were only three left that she _could_ make out, all of them in the same handwriting as the fairytale book.

Faith recognized the first one.

* * *

**_The Witch and the Warrior_ **

_Our story begins with a valiant knight, struck down in battle for the sake of the kingdom he had sworn to protect. He died an honorable death, and those who had fought at his side grieved him as one would a brother or a father before lowering him into the ground. His story was one that ended sadly, but still one that ended naturally—one who lives a dangerous life will eventually find themselves on the wrong side of a monster’s bite or a sword’s sting._

_But there are those who are unhappy with those endings, authentic as they are. The knight was powerful in all regards—a scholar as well as a fighter—and if turned to the side of evil, he would be more than powerful enough to strike a heavy blow against the forces of life and light. Throughout his battles, a disciple of darkness had been biding her time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike—and his death was more than perfect. She had the chance to bring him back as a man reborn—a great warrior for the forces of evil._

_The disciple donned her magic cloak, called upon all the demons and monsters in the world, and brought back the knight anew._

* * *

Faith frowned at the paper. _A disciple of darkness?_ But that made it sound like—

She swallowed, hard. That made it sound like the witch _wasn’t_ Lady Gwen after all. That made it sound like the witch really _was_ a witch, not some delicate, grieving rose doing all of this shit out of love. What if the witch was trying to raise some kind of monster?

Faith tried to remind herself that she didn’t care—that she was evil, and the witch was evil, and that kind of stuff shouldn’t matter as much as helping the witch out of a sticky situation. But the thing was, Faith had stolen Umbra because she thought the witch needed _help—_ and if the witch had brought this on herself, then help probably wasn’t something she was going to appreciate receiving.

WHAT ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT, SLAYER? said Umbra.

Faith swallowed. Then she said, “Is the witch Lady Gwen, or is the witch just a witch?”

THE LADY WITCH’S NAME IS HIDDEN FROM ME, said Umbra. At Faith’s quizzical expression, it continued. I MAY KNOW THE NAME THE LADY WITCH USED BEFORE BECOMING MY DISCIPLE, BUT IT IS OF NO USE TO ME. SHE GAVE UP HER NAME—DIVORCED HERSELF FROM IT IN MIND, BODY, AND HEART. IT IS THE ONLY THING THAT KEEPS ME FROM CONSUMING HER ENTIRELY.

 _“Consuming_ her,” Faith repeated. “What do you mean, _consuming_ her?”

YOU DID NOT TAKE MY DEAL, said Umbra, clearly smug about it. Little bastard cloak. I CAN TELL YOU THAT THE LADY WITCH’S NAME IS HIDDEN FROM ME, BUT I CANNOT TELL YOU ANYTHING I KNOW ABOUT THE LADY WITCH HERSELF.

“How does that count?” said Faith indignantly. “I’m not asking you about _the lady witch_ —I’m asking you about what _you’re_ gonna do to her. What do you mean, _consuming_ her?”

Umbra seemed to consider Faith’s point. Finally, it said, THE LADY WITCH AND I STRUCK A DEAL. SHE IS ABLE TO UTILIZE MY ABILITIES WHENEVER SHE WISHES, AND I AM ENTITLED TO HER SOUL IN A YEAR’S TIME.

“A year?” said Faith, feeling a complex rush of feelings. “But she said—she gave me six weeks. When does that year end?”

MIDNIGHT TOMORROW, said Umbra.

The realization hit Faith like a freight train. She had _twenty-four hours_ to save the witch’s soul. Twenty-four hours, and she still barely knew how the deal with Umbra _worked._ “But what happens if you learn her name?” she said.

I KNOW HER NAME, said Umbra. THAT DOESN’T MATTER. PART OF THE LADY WITCH’S END OF THE BARGAIN WAS FOR HER TO WILLINGLY GIVE UP HER NAME. AS LONG AS SHE ONLY THINKS OF HERSELF AS THE LADY WITCH, SHE REMAINS FRUSTRATINGLY OUT OF MY REACH.

And Faith had been trying to fucking _guess_ the lady witch’s name. Faith had been trying to land on that name at random, when it was a name that had the possibility to end the witch’s _life._ That was why the witch always said she didn’t have a name—

“Okay, you know what, you’re really bringing down the room,” said Faith, a lump in her throat, and turned to the second prophecy.

* * *

_As the traveler fell, the beast grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling the traveler out of his warm little house. It dropped the traveler in the garden, looking down at the little red rose with an unearthly smile on its face. “Now you are bereft,” it said. “What will your life be?”_

_The little red rose looked down at its traveler, the man who had spent his entire life trying to better the lives of others. It looked up at the beast, the evil thing who had ended the life of a man who had finally, finally learned how to be happy. Its delicate petals stained with the blood of the man it loved, blood now soaking into the ground and the grass, the little red rose said, “Come closer.”_

_The beast came closer._

_And with a slice of its thorns, the little red rose killed the beast._

_THE END_

* * *

Faith’s stomach turned over. She’d shut the book too fast to read the ending of that spooky, bloody little tale—but she’d imagined that it had ended with the grief and pain of the rose, or the rose’s miserable death, or the beast snatching up the rose and running off into the sunset. But this—this was the rose killing the beast. This wasn’t the way that it was supposed to go. She felt sure of it.

“Lady Gwen,” she said, voice shaking. Then, “Umbra, what killed Sir Bertram?”

YOU HEARD THE WITCH’S STORY, DIDN’T YOU? said Umbra. A TERRIBLE MONSTER KILLED THE GOOD KNIGHT.

Faith stared down at the prophecy, willing it to give her some kind of solid answer. Slowly, she said, “Umbra, did _you_ kill Sir Bertram?”

NAÏVE CHILD, said Umbra. DO YOU BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU READ?

Before Faith could answer that, she heard the _creak_ of the library door opening. With horror, she realized that the light in Giles’s office was on, his papers strewn across his desk—just as she heard Buffy’s laughing voice saying, _“Giles,_ you goof! Did you leave the office light on again? And here I am trying to reduce my carbon boot-print—”

Unable to think of any other way to disguise herself, Faith pulled Umbra over her shoulders, flipping the hood up just as Giles and Buffy entered the room. Her heart caught at the way they both stepped back from her, eyes wide with horror. “Giles, it’s the witch,” Buffy said, her voice shaking. “Giles, it’s the _witch._ What is she doing here?”

“I-I don’t know,” Giles stammered, face ghostly pale. “The blood oath should keep her from doing things like this—”

“Okay, _I’ll_ ask her,” said Buffy, squaring up—and Faith couldn’t help the warm little hop-skip her heart did at the fire in Buffy’s eyes. “Witch. What the hell are you doing on our turf? That goes _directly_ against the promise you made us and you _know_ it.”

A small jolt of magic went through Faith, and when she spoke, her voice came out sounding enough like the witch’s to fool—well, anyone who didn’t know the witch as well as Faith. “Uh,” said Faith. _Thanks, Umbra_. “Um. Prophecy?”

“…what?” said Buffy.

“Hhh,” said Faith, shifting from foot to foot and _really_ wishing she was smart enough to con her way out of this one. Trying to sound as terrifying and witch-like as she could, she said, “A-a dangerous prophecy is contained in your office, Watcher. I only wished to obtain it.”

“Yeah, well, _tough,_ ” said Buffy, taking a stubborn step forward. “This is _our_ office, and that means you’re on _our_ turf. Unless you want your blood to start boiling, I’d suggest you get going, and _fast—”_

“—ah, Buffy,” said Giles from behind her, “blood oaths don’t cause one’s blood to boil if they’re broken.”

 _“Shh,”_ said Buffy through her teeth. _“Maybe she doesn’t know that!”_

“Oh no!” said Faith, relieved at the opportunity to leave. Doing her best to covertly tuck the third prophecy under her cloak, she attempted to edge out of Giles’s office. “I don’t want my blood to boil! I’d better leave right now and never come back. You’ve defeated me, Slayer—”

 _“Hold_ on,” said Buffy, and grabbed Umbra, yanking Faith sharply back over to her. For a terrifying moment, Faith thought that her hood would fall—but apparently, Umbra was on her side, because her face remained in shadow. “I saw that,” said Buffy indignantly. “You took one of Giles’s prophecies!”

“…did not,” said Faith.

“Did too!”

“Did not!” said Faith with more indignance than she should, considering that she technically _had_ stolen a prophecy.

“I’m sorry, is this actually happening right now?” cut in Giles. “Lady Witch, we had a _deal._ It’s entirely unlike a witch of your caliber to renege on something so binding.”

“…can you speak English, please?” said Faith. “I don’t know _half_ those words.”

Giles and Buffy exchanged a look. Then Buffy said, sweet and casual, “Giles, what do you think the odds are that this _isn’t_ actually the witch?”

“Why, Buffy, I’d say the odds are skyrocketing as we speak,” said Giles matter-of-factly, eyes narrowed. “Especially considering that this young woman doesn’t at _all_ seem _anything_ like the witch. Not in temperament, not in intellect—”

God, it was taking _everything_ in Faith not to snap. _Witch,_ she reminded herself. _I’m doing this for the witch._ Gritting her teeth, she tried to pull Umbra out of Buffy’s hands. “It’s a prophecy you can’t read,” she snapped. “I’m the only one who can. I _need_ that to help someone I care about.”

“Like _you_ could ever care about anyone,” said Giles coldly.

And somehow, _that_ was what did it. “You know what, _fuck_ you!” said Faith hotly, ripping off Umbra and tossing it—and the prophecy—to the floor. “God, I am never gonna be good enough for you guys, am I? _Not in temperament, not in intellect—_ well, _fuck_ you, _fuck_ your prophecies, and _fuck_ you again for thinking I’m such a bad bitch that I can’t _care_ about other people! I don’t _need_ you to love me, and I _never_ have, and I feel _goddamn stupid_ for thinking that I ever did!”

Buffy and Giles both reeled back.

“What?” snapped Faith. _“What?_ Is it really that fuckin’ shocking that I’m the one under this cloak?”

But then she realized: neither Buffy nor Giles were looking at her. “Giles,” said Buffy, voice unsteady, eyes fixed on a point directly behind Faith. “Giles—oh my _god,_ Giles—”

Giles seemed struck speechless. Tightly gripping Buffy’s shoulder, he drew in a harsh, shaking breath.

A chill went through Faith. Slowly, dread in her stomach, she turned around: the witch was standing behind her, hair a tangled mess from her enchanted sleep, eyes devoid of magic and _full_ of rage. Without a word, the witch picked up Umbra, throwing it over her own shoulders—then _flicked_ her hand at Buffy and Giles. Both of them dropped like stones.

“Witch,” said Faith, her voice shaking.

The witch didn’t say anything. Her hand closed _tightly_ around Faith’s upper arm—hard enough to hurt—and she all but dragged Faith out of the library, stopping them in the hallway. “You’ve outlived your usefulness,” she said, her voice flat and empty.

“Witch,” said Faith again. “Gwen. I was trying to _help—_ ”

“Do you realize what you’ve done?”

The darkness was descending in around both of them, Umbra wrapping around them with an air of self-satisfaction. On instinct, Faith reached up, gripping the witch’s shoulders and closing her eyes. _I’ve got you,_ she thought. _I have you. I promise._

* * *

When it cleared, they were standing again in the front room of the castle, and the witch’s eyes were flashing that violent, electric violet that—Faith knew now—was one hundred percent Umbra. “You little brat,” she hissed. “You goddamn parasite—”

“Did you kill them?” said Faith, her voice trembling.

“Do you _understand_ what you keep on doing?” snarled the witch. “He’s going to _die_ again because of you!”

And—there it was. Anger, back in full force. “WELL, MAYBE HE SHOULD!” Faith shouted. “What the _fuck_ are you trying to do, Gwen? What the _fuck_ is it gonna do, bringing him back?”

“I’ve done so many things wrong,” said the witch, cold and bitter. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re telling me I _wouldn’t understand?”_ snapped Faith. “I _killed_ a man—”

“AND SO DID I!”

Faith stopped.

“I killed him,” said the witch. Her voice broke. “His blood is on my hands. I’m the monster, Faith. I’m the reason he’s dead. I can’t live with that on my conscience.”

“Bullshit,” said Faith, stepping forward. _“Bullshit._ I _know_ you, Lady Gwen. No way is it as simple as that.”

“You _don’t_ understand—”

“Did you want him dead?” said Faith, taking another step forward. Lady Gwen flinched back. “Were you trying to kill him?” Another step. “Did you regret it the _second_ after the life left his eyes?” A final step, enough so that they were all but nose-to-nose. “You’re not a murderer,” said Faith, and suddenly, the misery and pain in Buffy’s eyes made _sense._ This person she _cared about_ was standing in front of her, and Faith couldn’t do anything to ease her guilt. “It was an accident. You didn’t mean to.”

“You don’t know _ANYTHING!”_ screamed Lady Gwen, and tendrils of darkness _shot_ from Umbra, slamming Faith up against the wall. Faith gasped, tears of pain springing to her eyes. “You’re _nothing!_ You’re a little girl who made a mistake, and somehow that makes you think you’re bad enough to understand _me!_ ”

“Gwen,” said Faith. She was crying. “Guinevere.”

“You think that’s my _name?”_ The witch’s eyes were no longer violet—the inky darkness had consumed them, pupils and irises and even the whites. “You think that I’d leave it out for _any_ stupid little kid to stumble across? You’re _useless,_ Faith. You’re _nothing._ Those fairy tales may hold bits and pieces of the truth, but they don’t tell the whole story.”

“Gwen—” She _knew_ she had to be strong, she knew she had to get through to the witch _somehow,_ but all Faith could think about was the softness in the witch’s eyes, the gentle way she’d stroked Faith’s hair, the little quirky thing her mouth did when she wanted to pretend Faith was being annoying instead of funny. And there was none of that softness now, because Faith had tried to help her and _failed._ Because Faith had trusted Umbra, and ended up breaking the witch’s trust in the process.

This really was what Faith deserved.

“I’m just as bad as you thought I was,” said the witch, stepping forward. The tendrils moved up, tightening around Faith’s neck. “And if I have to kill you to prove it, you’d better goddamn believe that I will.”

_Just as bad—never good enough—fuck your prophecies—_

Disconnected thoughts jumped through Faith’s mind. Black spots popped in and out of her vision.

_Little red rose—rose petals—dead in her partner’s apartment—_

_Guinevere of Many Days—_

* * *

_“Jenny,”_ gasped Faith, with a breath she didn’t know she’d had. _“Jenny Calendar.”_

* * *

The witch fell back, the tendrils of darkness falling back with her. Falling against the wall, Faith took in a frantic gulp of air, coughing and wheezing in an effort to capture enough air to breathe. Eyes streaming, she looked towards the witch—

—and saw that Umbra had begun to change.

No longer a cloak, Umbra was _growing,_ looming over the witch like some terribly oversized shadow. The witch no longer looked furious and vicious—she looked disoriented, and miserable, and _heartbroken._

 _“Jenny!”_ Faith shouted, and _ran_ to her, trying to catch Jenny Calendar’s hands in hers. The witch had been right, there was _more_ to this, this was bigger than she could _possibly_ have imagined—

But Umbra was already descending on the witch, five times faster than Faith ever could. Jenny’s head snapped back as the darkness swallowed her up, spreading through the room so fast that it was light one moment and dark the next.

 _“JENNY!”_ Faith screamed. Too panicked to remember how to hone her Slayer senses, she _lunged,_ reaching desperately in all directions in an attempt to grab Jenny’s hand. _“JENNY!”_

It was only Umbra’s voice in Faith’s ears, then, low and whispery and _deeply_ satisfied: _THANK YOU, SLAYER._

“Jenny,” Faith sobbed, and— _there._ A brush of fingertips against hers, just for a moment. “Jenny, c’mon, _please—”_

Slower than it had descended upon the both of them, the inky black darkness began to clear, bringing with it a sharp chill. Faith lunged forward again, reaching desperately towards the spot where she was _certain_ she’d felt Jenny’s fingers brush against hers—but as the darkness finally dissipated, she found herself alone in a Sunnydale cemetery.

* * *

_—a terrible, horrible woman, a woman who had trapped herself in her loneliness—_

— _little red rose, do you ever wish for a life bigger than this?—_

_—and with a slice of its thorns—_

_—a valiant knight, struck down in battle—_

_—as she herself died in the process._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here's where we end part one! there's a brief interlude between parts one and two that will go up on tuesday, bc 1) it's short and 2) i feel like a LOT of new questions might have been raised by this chapter. possibly. maybe.
> 
> kept my mouth shut about this one for a solid FOUR MONTHS. go me!


	11. interlude I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part two hasn't started JUST yet, but this interlude is relatively short and i don't wanna just post this as the week's update! so like ..... enjoy some angst.
> 
> warnings for some blood & character death this chapter, bc we've entered flashback city!

**_Interlude I: Jenny_ **

* * *

_Long before she locked herself away in a magical castle, the witch still was a witch—though not in the traditional sense. Well-versed as she was in the magics around her, the witch did not carry within her the innate ability to channel those magics into true, raw power. She did not let this hinder her study of magic, however, for she believed that magical theory was just as important and valuable as magic itself. Turning her attentions to research and collection, the witch created her own network of magic in a world both inside and outside our own, and called herself “technopagan.”_

_This witch had grown up in a family full of old and powerful magic. They did not understand her anomalous nature, nor her inability to connect to the magics around her, and so they called her useless, and faithless, and weak. What they did not know, and what the witch herself would take a very long time to find out, was that their anger came from a simple misunderstanding: their magic was fueled by vengeance, and the witch had only sunlight in her heart._

_In an effort to make her family proud, the witch did her best to mimic her family’s anger and stifle her ever-burning kindness. Year after year, she shoved it down, chipping away at it until—she hoped—only darkness would remain._

_Yet one’s nature is nearly impossible to fight. Stumbling into the midst of a battlefield, the witch bumped into a knight just as unsuited for war as she. He, too, had done his best to hide away the parts of him that made him useless, and faithless, and weak—and yet his own warm nature called out to the sunlight within the witch. It was all but inevitable, what happened next._

_All but inevitable—and no less tragic for it._

* * *

“Hey, Rupert?” Jenny bit her lip, heart fluttering. Even though he wasn’t on the other end of the line, she still couldn’t help thinking—what he would think when he heard the message, if he even listened to it. What he might feel, knowing how hard she’d worked to make things right—both for his sake and for Buffy’s. What that might mean for _them,_ now that he knew she wasn’t just a lying, betraying spy—she was someone who had made mistakes, and wanted to make up for them. He was a smart guy. He’d understand well enough.

“Hey, Rupert,” she said again, and couldn’t keep the tenderness out of her voice. “Hi. Um, I have…news. I would have told you in person, but…I don’t know, I guess I kinda freaked. Not to mention that it’s late, and I only just finished it now, and I…am rambling. Okay. I’ve been running on coffee and no sleep for the last three weeks, so you’re gonna have to excuse the general messiness that is this voicemail message. But.”

She swallowed, the fluttery warmth transitioning very quickly into fluttery nervousness.

“You know how I said that the magics were lost?” she said. “That there was no way to bring Angel back? Well…at the time, I, I genuinely believed that. But then I started thinking—I mean, that’s only what my uncle told me, and my uncle also told me that Angel was an irredeemable monster who deserved to suffer for all of eternity. So I did some reading of my own, and put my multilingual translation and computation skills to good use, and, uh…”

She almost felt afraid to say it, even to an empty answering machine. Saying it meant that it was real—that this period of perpetual waiting and misery was finally coming to a close. Whatever happened next, Rupert was going to have to pay attention to her, and she didn’t know how that was going to go.

But then she thought of Rupert’s warm smile, and the way his fingers laced with hers, and the way he’d once dropped by her classroom in the early morning with a paper cup full of steaming hot coffee. Terrifying as it was to imagine trying to repair what she’d broken, it was _worth_ it if it would ease the burden of the man she loved.

“I found the curse,” she said. “The one that’ll bring his soul back for good? I found it. I’m gonna use it.” She laughed a little nervously. “A-and if you don’t…if you don’t get this message, that’s okay, because as soon as I hang up this phone, I’m gonna drive to your house and tell you in person. If you’re in.” She laughed again, breathless. “Seeing as you, um, you said I could stop by.”

She hesitated for a moment.

“I love you,” she said, on impulse, and hung up very fast, falling back against the wall.

* * *

In the darkness, Angelus considered this information. What had once seemed a simple plan had developed an interesting twist: Jenny Calendar was heading over to the Watcher’s house, brimming over with pride. Jenny Calendar, estranged from the group, working to restore his soul only for the sake of the man she loved.

 _Well,_ he thought. _This can be a little more fun._ If Rupert Giles was the only reason Jenny Calendar wanted to restore Angelus’s soul—what would Jenny Calendar do when that reason was taken away?

* * *

 _“I love you,”_ said Jenny, and then the message ended.

Giles found himself left with a convoluted mixture of emotions, not all of them as positive or as lovely as he’d expected this news to make him feel. Though a petulant, childish part of him had wished Jenny to feel as hurt as he had upon finding out what she’d kept from him, he had _never_ wanted her to take full and complete responsibility for the Angelus mess—and he’d thought she’d understood where his anger came from. He’d believed that she’d understood his decision to stand beside Buffy as a Watcher as a tactical one—though his Slayer’s violent anger and blame was indeed misplaced, Buffy needed a trusted ally in that moment more than Jenny needed a lover. He’d believed that she had understood Buffy’s anger as coming from a place of self-hatred, and needing an easy target to direct that fury upon.

Never had Giles wanted Jenny to feel so lonely, so afraid, that she might spend three weeks forgoing sleep and self-care in favor of fixing a problem that had never been her responsibility to fix. And while he couldn’t help but marvel at her fortitude, her intellect, and her compassion, a part of him was deeply horrified by the injuries he had inflicted upon someone he loved very much.

Blinking back an unexpected wave of tears, Giles swallowed. There would be time, he told himself. Time to tell her how sorry he was, and how it wasn’t her fault, and all of the things he _should_ have told her instead of cutting her off without explanation or sympathy. Though he had had every right to be angry, Jenny had misunderstood his anger—and very clearly had no idea how deeply his love for her ran. He hung up the receiver, and—

There was a knock at the door.

“Jenny,” said Giles, feeling a mixture of that new sadness and that old, familiar, vaguely panicked warmth. Crossing the room, he opened his front door—and took a reflexive step back.

“Giles, no, it’s—” Angel swallowed, eyes big and miserable. “It’s me. I-I don’t know how, but…it’s me.”

“What?” said Giles unsteadily.

“Ms. Calendar—” Angel waved a shaking hand. “I don’t know what she did, or how she did it, but I—I have my soul back. Can I come in?”

“Wh—oh, yes, yes, of course,” said Giles reflexively, and without thinking. His mind was on Jenny, and the soul spell, and—

And Angelus’s hands, at his neck, fingernails digging in. “I already had the invitation, you know,” he said. “I mostly just wanted to be polite.”

* * *

The door to Rupert’s house was ajar. That struck Jenny as a little odd. But then she heard the soft strains of operatic music—Rupert’s favorite, she realized, _La Bohème,_ and _wasn’t_ it a mark of how much she loved him that she could recognize it just from a few bars?

A rose on the door. _Oh._

“Okay,” said Jenny, and found herself smiling. “Guess he got my message.” She opened the door all the way, stepping inside—and frowned. There was a strange splotch on the wall. Dark red, almost like blood. “Gotta talk to him about the décor,” she said, laughing to herself. “Hey, England, you don’t want your apartment to look like a murder scene, do you? You’re _never_ off the clock if your house always looks like a vampire dropped by—”

And there was a rattling gasp from upstairs, and _something_ dripped down—a single drop—and hit Jenny’s cheek. Liquid, she realized, raising her hand to wipe it off of her face. Liquid. Red. Blood.

It took Jenny five slow, terrible seconds to figure it out. She would never be able to forgive herself for those five seconds.

“Oh— _damn!”_ Angelus descended the stairs from Rupert’s bedroom, hands red and wet, bloodied mouth in an ugly, fanged smile. “I really meant to be out of here before you showed up. There was gonna be a little more than just the roses and the opera—I was thinking champagne. Candles. Maybe a note. God, you really don’t waste time trying to get to this guy, do you?”

There was a strange ringing in Jenny’s ears. A single image in her mind: her uncle, his blood on the walls, torn to pieces in his hotel bed. _No. No. Not Rupert. Not Rupert. God, please, please not Rupert, anything but Rupert—_

“Too bad,” said Angelus. “You two made a cute couple.” Patting Jenny on the shoulder, he headed out the door, whistling in tune with the opera.

Another gasp from upstairs, almost sobbing.

Oh, god, she couldn’t. She couldn’t go up there. She couldn’t—but she had to, because if he was gasping, he was _alive,_ and there was still a chance. “Rupert,” Jenny sobbed out, and _ran_ up the stairs, all but tripping over her long skirt. And there Rupert was, sprawled against the foot of the bed, blood puddled around him. “Rupert— _no—_ ”

There was a glint of recognition in Rupert’s eyes. There was a glint of _something_ in Rupert’s eyes. And if he was breathing, there was still a _chance—_

And his eyes began to close.

“No,” Jenny gasped, and dropped to her knees next to him. _“No,_ no, baby please—oh, god, th-this is all my fault—”

Rupert fell sideways and into her arms, limp and lifeless. She could feel him breathing. Couldn’t she feel him breathing? He was, he _was_ breathing, he _had_ to be breathing, there was no way that this was what was happening, it was _her_ that Angelus had been after, _her_ that he had been trying to kill, Rupert was nothing to him, Rupert was—

Rupert wasn’t.

“Rupert,” Jenny begged, and god, god, she really was crying for the first time in _years._ She’d never been a crier. Never. “Come on, open your eyes. Come on. Please. For me. For _Buffy.”_ She didn’t care what did it. If he lived for Buffy, he was still _alive._

Rupert let out another rattling gasp, his fingers tightening around her sleeve.

“Come on,” Jenny whispered, voice shaking. “Hold on. Look at me, I l-love you, I—”

The fingers went slack. Eyes still half-open, Rupert’s head fell against her chest, unmoving.

 _“No,”_ Jenny sobbed. “No—no, _please_ no—”

* * *

_Our story begins with a valiant knight, struck down in battle for the sake of the kingdom he had sworn to protect._

* * *

“—god, please, I’ll do anything—”

* * *

_But there are those who are unhappy with those endings, authentic as they are._

* * *

“Anything,” Jenny whispered, clutching Rupert’s body to her chest. “Anything—” And her words took on a new cadence as she remembered: she _could_ do anything. She’d done the impossible once, hadn’t she? Brought back the magics to save Angel’s soul? She could do it again. She could do it again.

* * *

_The disciple donned her magic cloak, called upon all the demons and monsters in the world, and brought back the knight anew._


	12. half-past twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since part two is all about jenny, a DEFINITE warning here for overtly suicidal behavior from her in part two. like, it's a hugely present and eventually textual theme.

* * *

**Part Two: The Witch and the Warrior**

* * *

An hour after the time he’d said he’d be there, Giles still hadn’t dropped by to pick up that book of Ms. Calendar’s he’d given Buffy, and that struck Buffy as kind of odd. The last time Giles wasn’t punctual about something, there was some really weird, really demon-y personal stuff that he had been dealing with, and _yikes_ that seemed like a _very_ good reason to go check in on him. At the same time, though, Buffy’s mom was still hovering like she expected Buffy to go run off and have sex with Angel again, so there really was no sneaky way to leave the house without arousing suspicion.

“Willow,” she said. “Can you tell my mom I’m—god, I don’t know. I need to go check in on Giles.”

“What?” Willow blinked, and then her eyes went wide. _“Oh._ Where is Giles, anyway? Shouldn’t he be here? You said he was going to come over to pick up the book for his apartment too—”

“Yeah, and he hasn’t,” said Buffy, reminding herself—very firmly—not to be worried. Giles was a smart guy who could take care of himself. “I want to go make sure everything’s okay, but I think Mom’ll flip if I leave the house tonight. Can you cover for me?”

“I mean, I’ll do my best, but you know I’m not good at lying,” said Willow nervously. “Maybe I’ll just lock the door to your bedroom and turn on the TV or something?”

“I’m really sorry to put you in this position,” Buffy began, feeling a twist of guilt.

“No, it’s okay,” said Willow, and the shy, reassuring smile she gave Buffy made her feel certain that Willow really meant it. “I know you’re going through a lot right now, Buffy. I’ll help in any way I can.”

God, Willow was the best friend anyone could ask for. Even Buffy’s old LA friends couldn’t hold a candle to this girl. _“Thank_ you,” said Buffy, a lump in her throat, and pulled Willow into a warm hug, burying her face in her friend’s hair for just a moment. “Thanks. Okay. I’ll go check in on Giles—”

“Here’s the book,” Willow added, pressing it into Buffy’s hands.

“Oh!” Buffy laughed. “Yeah, thanks! I’ll give this to him, and then he can…give it to Ms. Calendar, I guess.” She didn’t know how to feel about Ms. Calendar, lately, but now _definitely_ wasn’t the time to try and unpack all _that._ “I’ll just—” She motioned towards her bedroom window.

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” said Willow affectionately, moving to shut Buffy’s bedroom door.

With practiced ease (this was, after all, how she left every night for patrol), Buffy snuck out the window, shimmied down the roof, and landed with a soft _thud_ on the ground outside her house. Staying low to the ground and away from any window her mom might catch sight of her through, she maneuvered herself a good distance away from the house before pulling herself up and hurrying in the direction of Giles’s house.

One small advantage of living in a town like Sunnydale was the fact that everything was in near-walking distance, and being the Slayer meant that Buffy was _damn_ good at power-walking. It only took her about fifteen minutes to reach Giles’s place, which was probably of the good, because fifteen minutes out at night in Sunnydale was enough to get even a Vampire Slayer a little jittery.

The door was standing open. That was weird. “Giles?” Buffy called, and that was when her Slayer-senses started going _haywire:_ shaky breathing upstairs. Blood on the wall. Signs of a struggle in the living room. But that wasn’t right, was it? Giles was fine, wasn’t he? “Giles, I have the book—” She stepped inside, shutting the door. No signs of Giles on this floor. Maybe he was in his bedroom. He was probably in his bedroom. He was probably fine. It was probably something else, something a little more bizarre. Probably Angelus had broken in just to make a mess. Just to scare Buffy. “Giles?” Buffy climbed the stairs, and some deep, innate part of her _knew_ what had happened, but she hadn’t seen it just yet so it was fine, it was fine, it was _fine—_

Oh.

Oh, there he was. There was Giles. There was Giles, and there was Ms. Calendar. The front of Ms. Calendar’s pretty floral top and most of her skirt and her hands were all _covered_ in half-dried blood, and there was a bloody handprint on her right shoulder, and her eyes looked hollow and dead, and as long as Buffy was focusing on Ms. Calendar she didn’t have to focus on the dead body in Ms. Calendar’s arms. Of course she would _have_ to, eventually, but right now she could just stand here, divorced from reality, staring down at Ms. Calendar and trying to remember why it had been so important to hate this woman. What was more important, now, than Giles? What was more important than the fact that her Watcher was dead?

“So,” said Buffy. Her voice sounded funny and small. “Angelus, right?”

Ms. Calendar didn’t say anything. She just stared up at Buffy with the same kind of vague disconnection that Buffy felt. None of this made _sense,_ Buffy thought. None of it made sense. That wasn’t Giles, dead in Ms. Calendar’s arms. That couldn’t be. That wasn’t right. Buffy had told Ms. Calendar that Giles missed her, and Ms. Calendar and Giles were supposed to make up, and Buffy was supposed to skulk around, frustrated and resentful and unable to properly express it. And then it would have bubbled up in some weird way, and Giles would have taken her into his office and given her a firm talking-to about how she needed to figure out what she wanted from Ms. Calendar, and—

“Say something,” said Buffy. “Please. Please say something.”

Ms. Calendar buried her face in Giles’s shoulder, shaking. Was it still Giles’s shoulder if Giles was dead?

“We should call the police, right?” said Buffy. “Ms. Calendar. Ms. Calendar, we should call the police, right?”

Ms. Calendar didn’t move.

“C’mon.” Buffy’s voice broke. “Ms. Calendar, please.”

Ms. Calendar didn’t move. Suddenly, hating Ms. Calendar didn’t seem at all possible. She looked utterly shattered, small and helpless like one of those tiny baby birds in _National Geographic,_ and she still hadn’t let go of Giles, and this—this wasn’t a deceitful spy who had dated Giles just to get to Buffy. This never had been.

“Ms. Calendar, _please.”_ Buffy was beginning to cry. “Please. I can’t—I can’t do this alone. I _can’t.”_

This was the kind of thing Giles was here to do, wasn’t it? Pick up the pieces and call the police and break the news to everyone else? Only Giles _wasn’t_ here to do it, Giles was _dead,_ and Buffy was going to have to call _someone_ and tell them what had happened, but she _couldn’t._ She couldn’t even say it out loud. This was something for an adult to do. This was something for Ms. _Calendar_ to do.

“Ms. Calendar,” said Buffy unsteadily. Small steps. “You need to let go of the body.”

 _That_ got Ms. Calendar’s attention. Head jerking up, she tightened her grip on Giles, looking up at Buffy with a mixture of fury and fear.

“Ms. Calendar,” said Buffy. God, she was _definitely_ crying. “Ms. Calendar, please—please let go of him. I need to call the police and it’s not gonna help if you’re—” She moved forward, trying to gently tug Ms. Calendar away from Giles, but that _definitely_ didn’t work. “C’mon, Ms. Calendar, I _don’t_ wanna use Slayer strength on you!”

Ms. Calendar buried her face in Giles’s shoulder again.

“Ms. _Calendar!”_ Buffy tugged harder.

Unexpectedly, Ms. Calendar went limp. Tugging with particular force, Buffy ended up propelled backwards, Ms. Calendar falling against her like a rag doll. For a terrifying moment, Buffy thought that Ms. Calendar was just as dead as Giles—that Angelus had shown up to kill _two_ people instead of one—but when she checked, Ms. Calendar was breathing, though she was _definitely_ out cold.

God. Okay.

Buffy didn’t have time to cry about this. She really didn’t. She didn’t even know how to _begin_ to process any of it. She got up, still feeling a little dizzy, and descended down Giles’s staircase, tightly gripping the railing to keep herself from tumbling down. She crossed the living room, trying not to look at all of the things that belonged to a dead man instead of her Watcher, and picked up the phone, shakily dialing three numbers.

“I need help,” she said.

* * *

The police didn’t seem to think Ms. Calendar did it, which was good, because Ms. Calendar didn’t seem to be in any state to convince anybody of anything. The coroners took the body away and mopped up some of the blood, and the police took Buffy’s statement, and they said they’d call Buffy’s mom and Xander and Willow and everyone Buffy asked them too. Which was _very_ good, because Buffy felt too dizzy and sick to really call anyone. That one phone call had taken it out of her.

The police said Ms. Calendar was probably catatonic and needed to go to the hospital, but Buffy did her best to fend them off, because she didn’t really think a hospital would help Ms. Calendar all that much. Everyone who cared about Ms. Calendar could step up and make sure she was okay, Buffy said stubbornly, and punctuated this statement by wrapping one of Giles’s blankets around Ms. Calendar’s shoulders. Ms. Calendar shivered like she was really cold and buried her face in the blankets like she’d done with Giles’s body—

Out of nowhere, it hit Buffy, right then and there in the middle of Giles’s apartment. No. Not Giles’s apartment. Giles was dead. Dead, and Buffy was alone, no Watcher to guide her when she needed him most. It felt like she’d been stabbed in the chest unexpectedly—dizzying and _painful_ —and her knees gave way, her hands flying up to her face to hide how hard she was crying.

“We should get them both to the hospital,” she heard one of the officers say. “Call the girl’s mom, definitely.”

* * *

Jenny woke up in a sterile white room, her clothing stained with blood. She wracked her brain to try and remember what the _hell_ had gotten her to this room, and then it came back to her: blood on her clothes, and Rupert’s fingers slack on her sleeve, and Buffy’s hands pulling her away from him. The memories felt faded, though, as though she’d seen them in a movie instead of lived through them herself, and she was grateful for that. She thought she was handling things pretty well, all things considered. Rupert would be proud.

Rupert _would_ be proud. That made her smile, soft and slow: he would be proud, when she saw him again. He would be proud, and Buffy would be happy—

Oh, god, _Buffy._ Buffy had been so frightened, seeing her Watcher like that. Was she okay? Was she with her mother? Jenny needed to get to Buffy and tell her that everything would be okay, that she’d fixed things with Angel and she could fix things with Rupert too—

“Ms. Calendar?” A teary-eyed Buffy poked her head in, giving Jenny a relieved smile. “Last time I checked, you, uh, you still weren’t awake. How do you feel?”

“Fine,” said Jenny.

That seemed to take Buffy aback. “…Fine?” she repeated. “Ms. Calendar, I…do you remember what happened?”

“I’m not suffering from memory loss,” said Jenny a little acidly. “I guess I’m in the hospital, right?”

Buffy looked a little floored. Slowly, she said, “Ms. Calendar, Giles is dead.”

Jenny flinched, almost involuntarily, at the word. “He’s not dead,” she said without even having to think about it. She couldn’t look at Buffy’s big doe eyes—god, the sickening fucking sympathy in those eyes all of a sudden, as though something was _wrong_ with Jenny, as though Jenny wasn’t _completely and totally fine—_ “He’s _not_ dead,” said Jenny again, trying to explain.

“I’m so sorry,” said Buffy, her voice breaking. “He—Angelus killed him. You have to remember that.”

“Angelus _killed_ him, but he’s not _dead,”_ said Jenny desperately. Why was this so hard for Buffy to understand? “I can fix it. I know I can fix it.”

“I-I don’t—” Buffy stopped. “What do you mean?”

“I can fix it,” said Jenny again.

A strange light flickered to life in Buffy’s eyes. In a shaking voice, she said, “Like—like you can bring him back?”

“I found a way to save Angel,” said Jenny. “That’s—that’s why Angelus killed Rupert. In retaliation. But all that means is that I can bring back Angel _and_ I can bring back Rupert, and everyone will be okay.”

“You can bring back Angel?” Buffy sounded like she was about to start crying. “He can come back?”

“He can come back,” Jenny confirmed.

“You found a way?”

“I found a way.”

“Oh, I’m—Ms. Calendar, I’m so _sorry!”_ Buffy sobbed out, and all but _flung_ herself into Jenny’s arms. Startled, Jenny stiffened, then slowly brought her arms up to awkwardly hug Buffy back. “Oh my god, I spent _weeks_ treating you like you were the most terrible person ever and now you’re going to bring back Angel and you’re going to find a way to save _Giles_ and I’m so-o-o sorry—”

“Buffy,” said Jenny a little impatiently. Crying wasn’t going to save anyone. _“Buffy!_ We need to focus, okay? We have a lot of work to do. Just—just calm down and listen to me.”

Buffy snuffled, raising her head to look up at Jenny with big, tear-filled eyes. “Ms. Calendar, you’re going to fix this,” she said, a note of childish relief in her voice. “I _knew_ you would. I knew it.”

That almost made Jenny smile. Almost. But she was still wearing the clothing covered in Rupert’s blood, and she couldn’t really smile when _that_ was going on. “I think I should go home,” she said, “and I think you should too. Tell Willow and Xander that we’ll resolve the stuff with Angel tomorrow. I’m sure he can help us find a way to bring Rupert back.”

“God, you’re right,” Buffy mumbled. “You’re really right. Okay. Um, my mom’s waiting for me in the waiting room, she said we could stay until you woke up—”

Carefully, Jenny untangled herself from Buffy’s arms, standing up and dusting herself off. Her head felt refreshingly clear. Sleep could work wonders. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said. “I’ll walk home.”

“It’s still a few hours till sunrise,” said Buffy, her voice trembling. “I don’t know if it’s safe—”

 _“Buffy,”_ said Jenny. It came out sharper and harder than she’d meant it to, and when Buffy flinched back, she instantly regretted it. “God, I just…I need to clear my head,” she said, and heard a tremble in her voice that she didn’t like.

“I get that,” said Buffy. “I do. But Giles w-wouldn’t—” She swallowed, hard, then said, “Giles w-wouldn’t have wanted you getting yourself hurt.”

Jenny didn’t really know if that was true. She supposed it was, at least in the sense that Rupert and his gentle heart didn’t like _anyone_ getting themselves hurt. She didn’t feel like fighting Buffy on such a trivial issue, though, so she said, “Sure. Okay,” and got up off the bed, following Buffy out of the hospital room.

“Ms. _Calendar,”_ Willow sobbed out, and ran forward, clinging to Jenny in tears. Xander stood up too, looking more miserable and shaken than Jenny had ever seen him. Next to him, Cordelia was crying into the shoulder of an exhausted-looking Ms. Summers, who moved forward as well with concern in her eyes.

“Ms—Calendar, isn’t it?” said Ms. Summers, gentle and worried. “Buffy mentioned that you and Mr. Giles were close. I hope you’re—that is to say, if there’s anything I can do—”

“She needs a ride home, mom,” said Buffy. “Can we do that?”

“Of course.” Ms. Summers moved forward to give Buffy another hug. “Come on, kids. We really should get going.”

Willow was still crying. Jenny felt a strange sense of frustration. Her top was ruined enough without Willow crying all over it, and god, why was Willow crying anyway? Rupert was going to be _fine_. “Come on, Willow,” she said roughly, tugging the girl along as she followed Ms. Summers out to the car. Willow stumbled, still clinging to Jenny, and tucked her head into Jenny’s side, burrowing closer.

Jenny didn’t want to be touched by anyone again after this night.

* * *

Angelus was waiting in the hallway outside her apartment. “How’s it going, Janna?” he inquired. “How’re you feeling? I’ve heard death can really hurt if it’s someone you love.”

Jenny couldn’t bring herself to really care that he was there. Moving past him, she took out her keys, beginning to unlock her door.

“Oh, come on, Jen,” said Angelus, and she felt hands on her waist. “Don’t be such a frigid bitch. Giles was important to you, wasn’t he? Huh?” One hand tightened on her waist; the other moved up, slowly, to brush her hair off of her shoulder, leaving her neck bare. “Or were you really just as cold and callous as the Scoobies thought?”

Jenny turned the key in the lock. It didn’t open. _Goddamn it,_ she thought with detachment, _this is the key to my classroom. I really am a little out of it today._

“Y’know,” said Angelus, fingers brushing against her jaw, “I honestly found it a little flattering. All the attention you were paying to little old me…really caught my eye.”

Tugging the key out of the lock, Jenny looked at the keys on her key ring. A key to the locked drawer in Rupert’s office—the one full of important documents and prophecies and Watcher stuff. The key he’d given to her _in case of emergencies._ Was what she’d found in his apartment enough of an emergency to warrant looking through his drawer tomorrow? She sifted through the other keys until she found the one she was looking for.

“Janna,” said Angelus, sing-song and almost impatient. “Aren’t you mad? A liberated twentieth-century woman like yourself, harassed by a monster like me? Doesn’t that just make you—” he leaned down, mouth open, fangs scraping against her neck without quite breaking the skin— _“scared?”_

Finally unlocking the door, Jenny opened it, moving forward—and was pulled back instead. Angelus still hadn’t let go of her. Turning around in his arms, she said, “Will it make you feel better if you hurt me, Angelus? Is that gonna make you feel like a man? Because if that helps you, go the fuck ahead.” She looked up at him, trying to remember what it was like when she’d been afraid of him—trying to remember what it was like when she had a reason to want to keep living. “I don’t care,” she said. “There’s not a single thing you can do to me that’s worse than what you’ve already done.”

Angelus’s hands dug into her waist. “Is that a challenge?”

“If you’re pathetic enough to take it as one,” said Jenny, unsmiling.

For some reason, that seemed to be the answer Angel was looking for. Dropping his hands, he stepped back, looking absurdly self-satisfied. “Then I guess you don’t have any plans on the agenda,” he said. “No new projects to put into play.”

Jenny stepped over the threshold, looking up at him. “Well, I’m still planning to restore your soul,” she said sweetly, watching as Angelus’s smug expression dissolved into one of pure, animal rage. “Other than that, though? I don’t really know.”

With a roar, Angelus threw himself through the doorway—or tried to. Jenny had never invited him in, after all. Hitting the invisible barrier, he roared again, throwing himself desperately at it.

“You know what?” said Jenny. “I think I might actually do it right now. I think that that would be pretty fun.”

“YOU LITTLE BITCH!” yelled Angelus.

Smiling acidly in Angelus’s direction, Jenny crossed the apartment to her couch, picking up her bag with the typed copy of the ritual and the Thesulan Orb. “Wanna watch?” she said, giving Angelus a saccharine smile. “I think this could be a really great bonding experience.”

“I’LL RIP YOUR HEAD FROM YOUR TORSO, CALENDAR—”

“Yeah, you seem to be doing a really great job of that,” Jenny called over her shoulder, setting the Orb in the middle of her coffee table. “Here I am, headless!” Pulling out the ritual, she began to read. _“Quod perditum est, invenietur—”_

“YOU’LL GO THE WAY OF YOUR WATCHER,” Angelus shouted over her chanting. “YOU THINK I WON’T DO TO YOU WHAT I DID TO HIM?”

The memory of Rupert, bloodied and mangled, caught Jenny off guard. She bit her lip, _hard,_ and the coppery, painful taste of blood brought her back to the present. She was fine. She was _fine. “Nici mort, nici al fiinţei—”_

“I’LL DO WORSE,” howled Angelus. “WORSE, ONCE I’M FREE OF THIS SOUL—”

 _“—lăsa orbită să fie vasul care-i vă transportă sufletul la el!”_ Jenny shouted, cheeks wet. Was she crying? Why was she crying? She was _fine!_ She had it under control, she had a plan, Rupert would be _okay again—_

Rupert.

It was his face she was thinking of as she felt the spell take hold, the old magics and borrowed power rushing through her fingertips and into the Orb. It wasn’t love fueling her spell, not exactly, but it wasn’t vengeance either. Something else.

Something _better,_ Jenny thought, licking her lips almost unconsciously as the waves of magic rushed through her. Angel’s angry howl was dulled somewhat, as though she was hearing it from underwater—and the world no longer felt so harsh and bright. Closing her eyes, she let herself enjoy the feeling—

—and too soon, it was over. That too-sharp clarity returned to her, complete with a knot in her stomach that she hadn’t noticed until it had returned to her. Slowly, Jenny turned to look at Angel through the doorway: his eyes were liquid and puppyish, fixed with growing horror on the blood staining her clothing and the bruise at her neck. “O-oh,” he whispered. “Oh, god. Oh, god, Ms. Calendar—”

Jenny crossed the room, shutting the door in his face.

* * *

Almost mechanically, she undressed for bed, discarding her bloodied clothing with vague plans of methodically destroying all of it later: she had no intention of ever wearing anything she had worn the day Rupert Giles had—this day. Today. Jenny entered the bathroom, stepping into the shower, and ran the water as hot as she possibly could. Even as steam filled the bathroom, she could barely feel the warmth.

The blood didn’t seem to leave her hands. Jenny scrubbed, and scrubbed, and scrubbed, and her hands were raw, but the blood didn’t seem to leave her hands. Or were her hands just red and raw from the scalding water? It didn’t matter. She could feel his blood on her hands and her face. She knew it was there on her clothing, puddled on the floor by her dresser. It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t leave her.

He couldn’t leave her.

Thinking of Rupert sent a shock of pain through Jenny—oh, no, that was probably the hot water. That was definitely the hot water. What was she _thinking?_ Jenny turned off the water and grabbed a towel from the rack, drying herself off almost violently. She was going to go to bed, and she was going to be asleep, and she was not going to have to think about _anything._ Not anything. Nothing.

Her bedside phone began to ring. Probably Buffy, calling about Angel, wanting to make sure he was really Angel and not some fiction. That was the kind of call Jenny probably had to answer, so she wrapped the towel around herself somewhat more securely and headed back into her bedroom, picking up the phone.

 _“Ms. Calendar—”_ Buffy was crying. _“A-Angelus—he’s outside my house, he says he’s Angel, he says you’ll—that you gave him back—that you—”_

“I gave him back his soul, yes,” said Jenny, flat and empty.

_“And it’s—and he’s safe?”_

“Safe enough,” said Jenny. “I wouldn’t recommend sex again until I’ve fully researched the meaning of _true happiness.”_

A choking sob. _“Ms. Calendar, thank you. Thank you so much. I—”_

Jenny hung up and went to bed.


	13. no one to hear my prayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FORGOT TO POST AN UPDATE I AM SO SORRY FRIDAY HAS BEEN INSANE !!!! my college has moved to online study due to coronavirus prep, i'll be living with my aunt and uncle for three weeks apparently, the preview for the buffy comic dropped and it's all calendiles all the time, i went to see the miss fisher movie and got VERY emotional....so. yeah. a lot of stuff.
> 
> BUT here it is!

The library was quiet and deserted when Buffy showed up to school the next day. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been this: the entire place feeling like a strange, empty shell without Giles. The library, she realized, had always been irrevocably tied to her Watcher, to the work they did, to the drills and the research and the late-night stops to grab weapons before patrol—but there would be none of that now. Unless they sent a replacement. God, she hoped they didn’t send a replacement.

“You okay?”

Buffy turned to look at Cordelia, honestly surprised by the question. There was nothing but sympathy in the other girl’s face. “No,” said Buffy honestly.

“Yeah,” said Cordelia quietly. “Me either.”

God, the world really was topsy-turvy. Giles dead, Cordy being _nice—_ next Snyder would probably show up and give Buffy an award for Good Citizenship. Buffy crossed the library to place her backpack quietly down on the table, then sat down in one of the chairs, waiting for…she wasn’t really sure what. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do without Giles. Just patrol like normal? Go about her life, minus him? She had a feeling it was what he would have wanted, but it wasn’t what she herself wanted to do.

Willow had stayed back from school—too inconsolable to come in, she’d called in sick for the first time _ever—_ but Xander was next to enter the library, looking just as miserable and worn as Buffy felt. “Any of you seen Ms. Calendar?” he said quietly.

“She didn’t seem like she was doing all that great,” said Cordelia with a small frown.

That took Buffy by surprise. Though she’d gotten off to a rocky start, Ms. Calendar seemed to be the only Scooby managing to hold it together after Giles’s death. “She, um, she said something to me at the hospital,” she said. “About bringing Giles back.”

Xander and Cordelia stared at her. Uneasily, Xander said, “Is that possible?”

“I mean—” Buffy swallowed. Now, she knew, wasn’t the time to bring up spending the night crying in the arms of the guy who had murdered her Watcher—but Xander and Cordy did deserve to know that Angel was back. Steeling herself for some _major_ anger, she stood up, turning to fully face them both. “She did give Angel back his soul, so—” She swallowed. “So I think if anyone can bring back Giles, it’s Ms. Calendar.”

“I’m sorry, she did _what?”_ said Xander sharply.

“Xander,” said Cordelia quietly.

“Don’t _Xander_ me!” snapped Xander. “The guy murders Giles and he gets a free pass to be human again? What the _fuck,_ Buffy? I thought you were _better_ than this! I thought—”

“This isn’t _about_ me!” Buffy shot back, but his words had still cut more deeply than she cared to admit. “If Angel’s back to being Angel, he’s not gonna go around _killing_ all of us!”

“Oh, yeah, ‘cause I trust Angel _so_ much right now!” Xander shouted. “How _could_ you, Buffy?”

 _“I love him!”_ Buffy sobbed. “And I didn’t do this for me, Xander, I-I _didn’t—”_

“Like that’s true,” spat Xander. “Like you didn’t jump at the chance to get your boyfriend back.”

“I-I don’t know what to do!” Oh, god, Buffy was _really_ crying, it was yesterday all over again— “I don’t know—this is where Giles is supposed to tell me what to do, how to handle this, but he _can’t,_ he _can’t_ do that, ‘cause he’s _dead_ and it’s all my fault! And _yeah,_ I wanted Angel here, because Angel’s the only other person who’s ever made me feel like he knows a single thing about what I’m going through—”

“Yeah, boo hoo,” said Xander savagely. “Poor little Slayer. Giles is _dead,_ Buffy—”

“You think I’ve forgotten that?”

“Guys,” said Cordelia, a tremble in her voice. “Stop.”

“Don’t you start!” shouted Xander, rounding on Cordelia for a brief moment before turning his attention back to Buffy. “What the fuck is _wrong_ with you, Buffy? Giles isn’t even _buried_ yet and—”

At the word _buried,_ Buffy felt her knees give way. Falling against the table, she half-slid to the floor, hiding her face in her hands as she sobbed. “I’m sorry,” she wept. “I’m so—I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

“What the fuck is wrong with _you,”_ said Cordelia, and Buffy looked up—but was surprised to see that Cordelia’s eyes were on Xander. “I’m serious! Buffy’s been through the _wringer_ and you’re yelling at her like that? Giles is _dead,_ and you need to get over your little hate-boner for Angel and see that Buffy is in a _really bad place_ right now! Obviously she’s gonna want Angel back—if _my_ dad was dead, you’d be the _first_ person I’d want to talk to! Or at least you _would_ have, before you did _this!”_

Guilt crossed Xander’s face. “Cordy—”

“Don’t _Cordy_ me,” said Cordelia sharply. “Get your head out of your ass and try and _support_ the people around you instead of yelling at them.” With that, she crossed the room, sitting down next to a stunned Buffy. “For the record,” she said to Buffy, “I think Xander _is_ kinda right, at least on _some_ levels. Giles hasn’t even been dead a _day,_ y’know?”

“I wasn’t the one who did it,” said Buffy, and sniffled. “I didn’t even _ask_ her to do it.”

A strange look passed between Cordelia and Xander. “Wait,” said Xander. “You didn’t ask Ms. Calendar to do it?”

Buffy shook her head.

“Oh, man,” said Xander softly. “Buffy, I’m sorry.”

“Save it, Xander,” said Cordelia sharply. “I think you’ve done enough today.” To Buffy, she said, “Listen, are you _sure_ you didn’t ask Ms. Calendar? You said Ms. Calendar was there when you found the body and she seemed _really_ messed up—”

“She’s doing fine now,” said Buffy automatically.

But Cordelia shook her head. “I don’t think she is,” she said.

As if on cue, the library doors opened, and Buffy’s eyes widened: the lady in question was standing in the doorway, looking paler than usual—though it was probably highlighted by the satiny black blouse, black skirt, black heels, and black lipstick. It wasn’t just that, thought: something in Ms. Calendar’s eyes seemed a little different. Buffy couldn’t pinpoint it, but—

“Way to go goth, Ms. Calendar,” said Cordelia a little uneasily.

“Buffy, why are you on the floor?” said Ms. Calendar flatly.

“Xander yelled at her till she started crying,” said Cordelia. “Ms. Calendar, _did_ you give Angel back his soul?”

“I don’t think that’s important right now,” said Ms. Calendar, walking past them to one of the shelves. “Now, necromancy is a little tricky, and I’m pretty sure Rupert doesn’t have any books on the subject for that exact reason. A whole lot of stuff has to be sacrificed to bring back a life taken by _magical_ means—I can’t even imagine what it’s going to take to bend the forces of nature backwards for a man who was murdered. The laws of the universe—”

“Ms. Calendar?” said Buffy, her voice trembling.

 _“Don’t_ interrupt me,” said Ms. Calendar acidly, whirling on her heel and directing a furious look at the three of them. “As I was saying. The laws of the universe state that a death created through magical means—burning out from magical overdrive, diving through an interdimensional portal, et cetera—can be reversed with a sacrifice of lesser-to-equal proportions and by observing the proper rituals. However, a death created through any _other_ means—and that includes being killed by a vampire, despite a vampire being a supernatural creature—must be reversed with a sacrifice of equal-to-greater proportions, which means that there aren’t a lot of texts about a successful resurrection ritual. Not a lot of people are willing to—”

“Uh, you sure you’re not being haunted by Giles’s ghost?” said Xander with an uneasy laugh. “Cause you sound a _lot_ like him right now.”

“Xander, no one has time for your bad attempts at levity,” said Ms. Calendar coldly. “You’re not half as funny as you think you are.”

 _“Whoa_ there,” said Cordelia, standing up (and pulling a surprised Buffy up with her). “Maybe _I_ can give my boyfriend grief, but I don’t think it’s _your_ place to say something like that.”

“Cordelia?” said Ms. Calendar. “Shut up.” With that, she strode past them into Giles’s office, shutting the door behind her.

Buffy was having a _lot_ of trouble reconciling broken-baby-bird Ms. Calendar with mean-scary-goth Ms. Calendar. Slowly, she said, “Okay. So, uh, Cordy’s take might have some merit, because that _definitely_ doesn’t seem like the lady I had to try and pull off of Giles last night.”

Cordelia swallowed. “Yeah,” she said quietly.

“Maybe—” Buffy sniffled. “I think she just really misses Giles.”

“Yeah?” Xander’s voice shook.

The reason Ms. Calendar had been so cold and weird was beginning to crystallize into a genuine theory. “Yeah,” said Buffy again, with more conviction. “Yeah, she—she’s just as scared as the rest of us. She’s just putting on a front so she’ll be strong enough to bring him back, and then when he _is_ back, she’ll be able to freak out.”

“I mean, I agree with you up to a point,” said Cordelia. “And I _hate_ to be this person, but guys, what happens if she _can’t_ bring Giles back?”

“Well—we’re not there yet,” said Buffy a little childishly. “And she _said_ she can, so—”

“Yeah, but if she _can’t?”_ said Cordelia. “That doesn’t seem like a lady who’s gonna give up easy. What if she gets herself hurt too?”

“She’s an adult, Cordy,” said Xander, managing a small, unsteady smile. “I think she’ll know what her limits are. Giles was good at stuff like that—”

“Guys, she’s _not_ Giles,” said Cordelia. “You both need to stop acting like she _is.”_

 _That_ sounded more like trademark harsh-and-mean Cordelia. “Tone it down, Cordy,” said Buffy coolly. “We all miss Giles, but that’s no reason to be mean to Ms. Calendar.”

“I’m sorry, this coming from the person who stonewalled her for _three weeks_ just because she didn’t tell us her weird uncle wanted her to watch Angel and she didn’t know why?” shot back an indignant Cordelia. “What’s got _you_ president of the We Love Ms. Calendar club?”

Buffy didn’t know how to explain what had happened when she’d seen Ms. Calendar curled around Giles’s body—that lightning-bolt realization that Ms. Calendar was the only other person who understood exactly what the world had lost when Giles was murdered. Awkwardly, she said, “People change, okay? Stop pushing me about it.”

“It’s been a tough morning,” Xander agreed. After a moment of hesitation, he reached out, clumsily patting Buffy on the shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said heavily. “I am. I’m still pretty pissed at Angel, but I shouldn’t have taken that out on you.”

Gratefully, Buffy moved forward to give him a hug.

* * *

Locking the door to Rupert’s office, Jenny pulled out the key ring, sifting through her keys until she found the for-emergencies-only key to the locked drawer in Rupert’s desk. Kneeling down on the floor, she carefully unlocked the drawer, pulling it out to find a hefty file folder marked _Prophecies And Such._ Her thumb lingered—momentarily—on the elegant curves of Rupert’s cursive, but when a tear blotted the inky _P_ in Prophecies, she hastily moved the folder to the desk. She didn’t want to further mar any last parts of him that still existed in the world.

The folder was mostly just full of prophecies. Impatiently, Jenny sifted through it, looking for something— _anything—_ she could use to bring Rupert back, or at least some indication of who she should ask for help. Someone wise, obviously, well-versed in magics, more capable than her of understanding forces that had the power to fuck with life and death—

The answer hit her out of the blue, and she almost laughed aloud.

* * *

Angel was drinking. It had been a while since he’d drunk like this, but no amount of alcohol could possibly erase the memories: Jenny Calendar’s wide, frightened brown eyes as he clapped her shoulder, leaving a bloody handprint there. The horrible, strangled noises Giles had made as he’d dragged the Watcher up the stairs, trying to inflict as much pain upon the man as possible just because he _could._ The empty, broken look in Ms. Calendar’s eyes only a few hours later as he gripped her waist and pressed his mouth to her neck—

“Oh, great,” said a voice from next to him. “Is there any point in talking to you when you’re like this, or am I just gonna have to come back later?”

Angel turned, eyes wide, and saw the lady in question: Jenny Calendar, wearing an unholy amount of black, face impassive and entirely unreadable. That was him, he realized. He’d taken the softness and kindness in this woman and methodically killed it. “Ms. Calendar,” he said, tripping over the syllables of her name. “Ms. Cal-en-dar. I’m so—I’m so sorry.”

“Let’s save us both some time,” said Ms. Calendar, waving a dismissive hand. “I don’t give a shit about your feelings right now. I don’t care if you’re sorry, I don’t care if you’re not—all I care about is finding a way to bring Rupert back.”

Angel blinked. “Bring him back?”

“The alcohol isn’t impairing your ability to _hear,_ is it?” said Ms. Calendar coldly. _“I’m. Going. To. Bring. Him. Back.”_

Angel stared. With some effort, he said, “That’s impossible.”

“That’s what I said about you, and look!” Ms. Calendar threw her hands up. “You’ve got a soul! If that proves anything, it proves that I can do whatever the fuck I feel like doing when I put my mind to it—and right now I feel like bringing back a man who should never have died.” She stepped forward, tilting his chin up with her finger. “You’re a smart guy, Angel,” she said. “You’ve been around. I’d expect you’d know at least a little bit about the kind of forces one needs to utilize to bring back Rupert Giles.”

“I don’t—” Angel swallowed. “This isn’t a good idea.”

“Don’t you dare patronize me,” said Ms. Calendar, eyes narrowing. “You have no right to refuse me this. You have no right to refuse me a single fucking thing, Angel. If I told you to kill yourself in penance for the lives you’ve taken, you would do it, and you would do it with a _song in your heart._ You owe me your _life._ You owe me your very pathetic _existence,_ and you have the _audacity_ to tell me what is and isn’t a good idea? Don’t you _fucking_ dare.”

Angel had looked into the eyes of many evil things before, but never had he felt this kind of fear. Evil people knew their strengths and their limits—but good people, pushed past the brink, were capable of so much worse than they realized. “Ms. Calendar—” He swallowed. “I’d never—I just want you to—I just want to help.”

Ms. Calendar’s face relaxed into something softer, but it was more akin to the difference between steel and cement. “I know you do, Angel,” she said. “And that’s why you’re gonna help _me,_ aren’t you?”

“Y-yes.”

“Good.” Ms. Calendar let her hand drop, making a production of wiping it on her skirt. “You’re going to come to me tonight with information. I don’t care where or how you get it, only that you’re in the library with news and notes regarding ways that I can bring Rupert back. We’ll say around seven, how’s that?”

“Yes, Ms. Calendar.”

“And if you’re late…” Ms. Calendar trailed off. There was no warmth in her eyes. “Don’t be late, Angel.”

“Yes, Ms. Calendar.” Angel felt strangely like one of her students.

“And—” Ms. Calendar took the half-full glass from Angel, then threw it to the ground, letting it smash on the floor. “He’ll pay for that,” she called to the bartender. Facing Angel, she said, “You are not going to drink. You are not going to do _anything_ that will dull the pain of what you did to Rupert. You do not deserve _anything_ other than suffering for what you did to the man I love, do you understand that?”

Heart catching, Angel remembered a moment from months ago: Ms. Calendar, shy and tentative, catching him after a Scooby meeting to awkwardly thank him for saving her life. _You’re more than your past, Angel,_ she’d said, _You deserve more than a life of endless suffering. I’m glad to see you’re putting that soul of yours to good use._

“Good,” said Ms. Calendar again, and turned on her heel, leaving the bar without looking back.

 _Thank you,_ Ms. Calendar had said, months ago. With a last smile, she’d turned, looking once over her shoulder to give Angel a small, clumsy wave.

Angel stared at the shattered glass on the floor, thoughts full of all of the things he had broken in the span of only a few weeks.

* * *

“Ms. Calendar!”

Jenny turned. Willow, teary-eyed, was hurrying up to her in the parking lot. “Oh,” she said, entirely uninterested in yet another feelings-related conversation revolving around Rupert. “Willow. You weren’t in school today, huh?”

“Neither were _you!”_ said Willow. “Buffy said you missed half of your afternoon classes! Snyder’s _really_ mad—”

“Hmm,” said Jenny. “Well, maybe he’ll fire me. Glass half full, right?”

Willow sniffled. “Ms. Calendar, are you okay?”

“That’s kind of a stupid question coming from a smart girl like you,” said Jenny, beginning to walk faster. “Didn’t Buffy and Xander tell you that I’m going to be bringing Rupert back?”

“Bringing…Giles back?” Willow repeated. “Like a resurrection? Can you _do_ that? Giles always said that that’s not something that people are supposed to do—”

“Well, Rupert isn’t _here_ right now to make the hard calls!” said Jenny a little more loudly than she’d meant to. Willow flinched back, and Jenny couldn’t hide her impatience: why was everyone _wasting so much time_ moping and wailing about Rupert? He was _going to be fine._ “Listen, don’t worry about it. I’ve got things under control. I’ve got a reliable source that I’m meeting with tonight—”

“So we’re having a bring-back-Giles meeting?” said Willow, tremulous but hopeful. “I can bring snacks!”

“I said _I’m_ meeting with them,” said Jenny.

Willow looked deeply hurt. “Giles always let us help out—”

“I’m not Rupert, Willow,” said Jenny shortly. “I don’t bring all the little kids to the grown-up monster-fighting table. Go home and get some rest.”

“ _Are_ you okay, Ms. Calendar?” said Willow, her voice shaking. “You don’t seem like yourself.”

“Well, when your boyfriend bleeds out in your arms, it does tend to take a little time to bounce back,” said Jenny, and sped up, heels clacking on the cement. She looked back, once, more out of habit than anything: Willow was still standing there, a lost, tearful look in her eyes.

* * *

Angel arrived at sunset, looking considerably more sober than Jenny had found him. “I hope this isn’t too early—” he began hesitantly.

“God, just—just shut up,” said Jenny, moving to take the papers he was holding. Glancing over them, she coolly informed him, “These are illegible garbage. You’d better have a good explanation for them.”

Angel gave her a long, searching look, then said, “There really wasn’t a lot I could find on short notice. I could do a little more sleuthing, but that would take some time—”

“You really _are_ useless,” said Jenny sharply. “Take your sweet time, why don’t you? It’s not like Rupert’s rotting in a morgue drawer somewhere.” She turned back to her own collection of notes and papers, most of them sent to her by her online contacts. “I think I’ll have to contact the Watchers’ Council,” she mumbled to herself. “Or his family, I’m sure they’d be able to help somehow—”

“There is—” Angel hesitated. “There is one other thing.”

Jenny turned, raising an expectant eyebrow.

“Giles mentioned it in passing a while back,” said Angel. “We were talking about Eyghon, and he mentioned—he said that when he died, his soul was going to go straight to Eyghon. He’d given it up in exchange to experience Eyghon’s powers in his late twenties, and—”

“That’s not useful information,” said Jenny.

“I just thought you should know—”

“Know what?” said Jenny. “That the man I love is suffering _as we speak_ because of you? That’s _really_ not news to me.” Placing down the papers she was holding, she said, “Stay here,” and strode out of the library, stumbling into a run once she’d reached the hallway.

Hurrying to unlock the teachers’ bathroom, Jenny stepped in, shut the door behind her, and fell back against the wall, pressing her hands to her face and holding her breath. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t cry. She _wouldn’t_ cry. She’d embarrassed herself enough with her complete loss of control after finding Rupert—

After finding Rupert—

 _Her_ Rupert—

Knees giving out, Jenny crumpled to the floor, sobbing in uneven, half-suppressed bursts of emotion. Removing her hands from her face, she found them smudged with black—her eye makeup, probably, or perhaps her lipstick, and god, _none of this was right._ How could this be right? How could this be her?

There was a tentative knock on the door. “Ms. Calendar?”

Jenny continued to cry.

The door opened. “You, uh, didn’t lock it,” said Angel, looming awkwardly above her with absolutely none of the menace of Angelus. “Can I—um, do you need any help?”

Wordlessly, Jenny sobbed.

“Okay,” said Angel. “Um, I’m—I’m gonna go look for more stuff that might help. I can just—” Hesitantly, he shut the door, leaving Jenny alone on the bathroom floor.

Jenny continued to cry for what felt like hours, but what was probably just about fifteen minutes. When her tears finally began to subside, her breath still came in hiccupping gasps, and it took all of her effort to pull herself up and off of the floor. Studying herself in the mirror, she found herself only halfway recognizing the woman she saw: pale, miserable, smudged black makeup, no light in her eyes.

She tried to find it in her to care that Angel had seen her so undone. She didn’t. She didn’t think she had it in her to care about anything anymore. Not the children, not Angel, not—not _anything._ Not until she knew that Rupert was back and safe and okay.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. You’re fine. You’re fine.” Carefully, she splashed some water on her face, using a scratchy paper towel to remove the last of her makeup. She didn’t look quite as badass as she would have liked, but the black clothing did help at least a _little_ bit. “Let’s do this,” she said, and left the bathroom, heading back towards the library.

Angel, of course, was long gone, though he’d left his notes strewn across the library table. Jenny, who had only given his papers a cursory glance, picked one of them up at random, finding only a few scrawled lines.

* * *

_UMBRA_

_—patron of darkness_

_—mostly just a legend_

_—feeds off of fear: the more fear in its victim, the more power it has_

* * *

Well, that was useless, but it was still _something._ Jenny crumpled it up, stuffed it into her pocket, and turned to the next paper—no, that was just the five stages of grief, denial pointedly circled in red pen. “Passive-aggressive little shit,” she muttered, tearing the piece of paper in half. “Thinks he can tell _me_ how to recover from what he did to my boyfriend?” The paper after that really _was_ illegible, and the last piece of paper—

* * *

_Rupert Giles, 44, was found dead in his apartment late last Wednesday. The scene was littered with rose petals, and the body was found by his partner, Jenny Calendar. Any information about this crime—_

* * *

_“Fuck_ that,” said Jenny very loudly, and crumpled the little newspaper article up, throwing it as hard as she could at Rupert’s office door. _Fuck_ that! He wasn’t _dead._ He _wasn’t._ Dead implied finality. Finality was only applicable if Jenny couldn’t fix this. Jenny _could_ fix this. Rupert had always stressed the importance of precision in one’s wording, and Jenny intended to follow that to the letter: Rupert was not dead. He _just wasn’t._

He just wasn’t.


	14. won't somebody help me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FORGOT TO POST THIS two weeks in a row! big fckin yikes. friday is update day and i WILL set a reminder on my phone. the world be stressful, i guess. i hope y'all are staying as safe as you can!
> 
> as with pretty much this chapter AND the next two: major warnings for jenny being majorly suicidal/unstable/generally in need of Help That Isn't Enabling Her.

Honestly, Angel didn’t really know where to start. That stuff about Umbra had been something the Master had brought up a long time ago—a legendary shadow-thing with strange, ancient powers, impossible to find and lethal to cut a deal with. It had been the only thing he could think of off the top of his head that seemed like what Ms. Calendar needed—a wild goose-chase that would give her some time to process her grief. She was a smart lady, Ms. Calendar. She’d figure out soon enough what Angel was _really_ trying to steer her towards. Umbra seemed like the only believable option—it did genuinely have the powers to raise the dead, after all.

He figured that throwing her a few scraps of information might distract her for a little while—long enough, at least, for Angel to get the hell out of town. He’d caused lasting harm here—he couldn’t possibly stay and make things worse. Not for Ms. Calendar, not for the Scoobies, and certainly not for a grieving, miserable Buffy—Buffy, whose heart he’d broken. He hated the thought of leaving, but it felt like the only right thing to do.

This plan, of course, fell to the wayside at about four in the morning, when there was a violent knocking at the door to his apartment. Angel, who had been packing his belongings up into a small duffel bag, froze—then slowly turned to face the door.

“I _know_ you’re in there, Angel!” came Ms. Calendar’s impatient voice. “Open up!”

Bemused, Angel crossed the room, duffel bag still in hand. When he opened the door, Ms. Calendar pushed past him, his own surprise more than the force of her body nearly knocking Angel into the wall. “What—” he began.

“Oh, good, you’re already packed,” said Ms. Calendar, taking his duffel bag. “No idea _why_ you’re packed, but that works for you, because you’re coming with me.”

“…why?”

“I’m sorry, Angel, are you under the misapprehension that you get to ask me any questions?” said Ms. Calendar, turning to arch an eyebrow at him in a way that reminded Angel distantly of the snarky-sweet lady with a bright, easy smile. This was not that woman. “When I say _jump,_ from now on, you say _how high._ Understand?”

“I—”

 _“Understand?”_ said Ms. Calendar, stepping forward.

“Ms. Calendar,” said Angel uncomfortably. “I don’t think—”

“Clearly,” said Ms. Calendar. “Because if you _did_ think, you’d think that Jenny Calendar is a woman who deserves better than a pointless generational vengeance crusade in response to something _you_ did, or finding her uncle dead on a hotel bed, or finding herself with her boyfriend bleeding out in her arms. You’d remember that Jenny Calendar is a woman who you have wronged thrice over, and yet she still found it within herself to give you your soul back instead of _kill you where you stand._ ” She stepped forward, shoving the duffel bag into his chest. Reflexively, Angel caught it. “You’d remind yourself,” she said, “that you took something _irreplaceable_ from Jenny Calendar, and until she gets it back, she deserves nothing more than your complete and total compliance when she asks you to take your fucking bag and get in her fucking car.”

She was smaller than him, Angel thought with a strange weight in his stomach. Small enough that, if he really wanted, he could push her out the door, shutting it behind her. But her words rang in his ears: _something irreplaceable._ He remembered what it had been like to kill Giles—the man’s eyes glittering with a kind of tired contempt—and it was perhaps that terrible memory that made it so hard to push Ms. Calendar away.

She _did_ deserve his compliance. If it was what she wanted—if it was what she would push him so hard to give her—

“I’ll get in the car,” said Angel quietly, and moved past Ms. Calendar, only half-registering her sharp, self-satisfied smile in response. Swinging the duffel bag all the way over his shoulder, he headed out of his apartment, not daring to look back.

* * *

They drove in silence for a very long time. Jenny was glad. She hadn’t _wanted_ to bring Angel along with her, but—her hands tightened on the steering wheel—sleepless nights plagued with unending nightmares had completely shattered her sense of security, and knowing that she had a strong, capable vampire there to protect her if things got tough on this mission… paradoxically, even though he was the _reason_ for those nightmares, the knowledge that Angel was there made her feel a little safer.

“So, uh.” Angel coughed, breaking the silence. “Where _are_ we going?”

“Shut the fuck up,” said Jenny pleasantly, and kept driving.

She had no intention of telling Angel _anything._ She had no intention of telling anyone anything, ever again. It felt better, keeping her secrets safe and where they were supposed to be. Better, knowing that the only people who ran the risk of getting hurt were people who didn’t deserve to live anyway.

The only _person,_ she corrected herself. There was only one person in this car who deserved to die a slow and painful death.

(Then again, it would be two if she counted Angelus.)

Jenny’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Now wasn’t the time to break down.

“Ms. Calendar?”

“Did you not hear me when I said _shut up?”_

“No, just—” Angel let out a soft, sad breath. “If you—I know this isn’t ideal, but—if you want or need to talk about anything—”

“The windows aren’t tinted, you know,” said Jenny. “We should get to where we’re headed before sunrise, but if you keep talking I’m gonna stop this car and watch you catch on fire.”

With a solemn nod, Angel went back to staring out the window.

Jenny turned on the radio, and suddenly the car was full of poppy, peppy ABBA. _Gimme, gimme, gimme a man after midnight / Won’t somebody help me chase the shadows away? / Gimme, gimme, gimme—_

“I like ABBA,” said Angel unexpectedly.

“I like thinking about what you’re gonna look like on fire,” said Jenny, and changed the station.

* * *

She drove more slowly than she needed to, enjoying the way Angel would shift uncomfortably every time the sky became just a little bit brighter. As the sun was just about to rise, they finally reached their destination: a cozy little cottage on the outskirts of LA. Seeing the small, familiar building—the bright paint, the well-maintained garden, the magical wind chimes that blew without a breeze—lifted Jenny’s spirits, if only slightly.

Still, despite the oddly lovely feeling of returning home, this wasn’t going to be a fun visit. “Get out of the car,” Jenny informed Angel. “I’ll go ahead. She’ll be able to tell you’re a vampire, so I want to make sure she fully understands the situation before she meets you.”

“She?” said Angel.

Jenny glared at him. “Just get out of the car,” she said.

Angel gave the sky a nervous look.

“Angel?”

Angel got out of the car.

Jenny walked up the drive, feeling Lilybeth’s soft, homey magic wrap itself around her. Inexplicably, her eyes stung with tears, and she bit her lip as she continued, heading up the porch steps to knock on the door.

A clatter from inside. Jenny almost smiled. “Betsy?” she called. “Lilybeth, it’s Janna. Can I come in?”

“Give me a minute!” sang out Lilybeth from inside, and then the door swung open. Jenny stepped inside, shutting the door behind her.

The cottage was just as disorganized as always. Spellbooks piled by the door, a crystal ball balanced precariously on an end table, half-melted candles on the floor—with a little grin, Jenny weaved her way through the clutter, finding her way to the kitchen.

Lilybeth turned from the sink, setting a soft brown bunny down on the table. It twitched its nose at Jenny, then jumped towards her, landing clumsily in her arms. “Hi, Baxter,” said Jenny, and when Baxter blinked softly up at her in response, she found herself feeling a hint of… _something_. Something warm. Something she hadn’t felt since Angelus’s bloody handprint on her shoulder. “Hey.”

“You know it’s not good when he does that,” said Lilybeth a little reprovingly. “He’s an empath bunny. He goes where there’s distress.” She stepped forward, looking more closely at Jenny, and let out a worried noise. “Janna, your aura is _bleeding._ What the hell happened to you?”

Jenny found herself unable to answer. A choked sob came out instead.

“Oh— _oh,_ Blue Jay,” said Lilybeth, moving forward to hug Jenny tightly against her. Baxter made an indignant little noise, squirming to make sure he was still at a good angle to check up on Jenny himself—but the grief was too powerful, Jenny thought, and if she succumbed to it now she might never come up. She pulled back. “Jay,” said Lilybeth reprovingly, correctly guessing why Jenny was moving away, “bottling it up is never the way to go."

"I don’t—I _can’t_ do anything else, Betsy,” said Jenny, sniffling. “I have to get him back.”

“Him?” Lilybeth repeated.

Jenny couldn’t say anything.

“Okay,” said Lilybeth. “Sit down while I make you some tea—”

There was a slightly frantic knocking at the door.

“O-oh, you should—um, that’s Angelus,” said Jenny. “He’s kind of with me right now. He’s safe, though, so you should probably let him in before he burns to a crisp.”

 _“Angelus,”_ said Lilybeth, a disbelieving note in her voice. “Is that the vampire you always talked about back in college?”

“Very possibly,” said Jenny, sitting down in one of Lilybeth’s mismatched kitchen chairs. Baxter licked her hand.

With a resigned sigh, Lilybeth left the kitchen. Jenny heard the sound of her footsteps—Lilybeth, attuned to the clutter of her home, could navigate through it much faster than anyone else—and then the sound of the door opening, and Lilybeth saying, “Under the condition that you are a friend of Janna, I invite you in.” Smart woman. If Angel lost his soul, he would no longer be a friend of Jenny’s. God, Jenny appreciated a lady who knew how to fuck with magical terms and conditions.

Angel stepped into the kitchen, looking all annoyingly kicked-puppy-esque. He was closely followed by Lilybeth, who directed him to a chair, then said, “Now. I assume there’s a reason that the both of you are here?”

“Uh,” said Angel, and looked at Jenny. When Jenny didn’t say anything, he said awkwardly, “I’m not…really…sure? Ms. Calendar wanted me to come with her, so I came. I…” He trailed off, first looking down at the table, then back up at Jenny. “I owe her at least that much, if not more.”

“Oh, _much_ more,” said Jenny darkly.

“O-kay,” said Lilybeth, waving a hand. “I don’t need magic to sense that there’s some tension here. Jay, do _you_ want to talk?”

Jenny didn’t. She focused instead on scratching Baxter’s ears.

“Angelus?” said Lilybeth.

“Um, it’s—it’s Angel, actually,” said Angel. “Now.” He looked nervously again at Jenny, then said, “I-I lost my soul, recently, and killed—”

 _“HE’S NOT DEAD,”_ said Jenny a little more loudly than she’d meant to. She felt Baxter jump a little in her lap, and gave him an apologetic, reassuring pat. “Sorry,” she murmured to him, then looked up at Angel, eyes flashing. “He’s not dead,” she said again. “I’m going to fix it.” Expectantly, she turned to Lilybeth. “That’s why I came to you, Betsy,” she said, her voice shaking only a little bit. “I know you don’t know necromancy, but at the very least, you’ll probably have some kind of an idea how to get Rupert’s soul back from Eyghon.”

“Rupert’s _what_ back from _who?”_ said Lilybeth, eyes wide.

“Yeah, me too, Betsy,” Angel muttered to himself.

“Okay, one,” said Jenny to Angel, “shut the fuck up. No one said you could talk. Two,” and this was for Lilybeth, “you’re _really_ connected in the LA scene. Isn’t there a possibility you can direct us to someone who can free a soul from the demon it was promised to?”

“Jay—” Lilybeth let out a breath. _“Janna,”_ she said. “That kind of thing just isn’t _possible_ unless you’re calling upon magics that are either deeply evil or too powerful to control. You have to understand that.”

“I do,” said Jenny, finally looking up into Lilybeth’s electric-green eyes.

Lilybeth held her gaze for a long few seconds. Finally, she said, “Your aura’s not just bleeding, Blue Jay—it’s bleeding _out._ This path you’re on isn’t the right one.”

“I don’t care about _the right path_ anymore, Betsy,” said Jenny flatly.

“And that’s what worries me,” said Lilybeth quietly. “I don’t know if I can help you in good conscience if—”

“Fuck that,” said Jenny. _“Fuck_ that. Lilybeth, I am _trying_ to play it safe, okay? I came to you because I _know_ you won’t lead me to anything that’ll end up hurting someone. I don’t _want_ to have to turn to the more dangerous crowd, but I _will_ if I have to, because I am _not_ gonna stop until Rupert is back!”

She’d begun to shout, she realized, and had to stop herself there. She was expecting fear in Lilybeth’s eyes, but her friend was still looking at her with the same worry and compassion—and suddenly, Jenny couldn’t hold Lilybeth’s gaze. Looking back down at Baxter, she focused in again on his soft, brown fur.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. Then Lilybeth said, “We can try and call him.”

* * *

They set up the candles, the blessings, the herbs to burn—all in the magical circle carved into Lilybeth’s living room floor. Angel, dead enough that his energy might upset the ritual, was sent to the kitchen to keep an eye on Baxter—which made Jenny feel better and worse at the same time. Better for obvious reasons—she still remembered him in vamp face, Rupert’s blood dripping from his mouth and hands—but worse for reasons she couldn’t decipher.

She put her complex feelings aside and sat down in the circle herself, facing Lilybeth. The slow, warm hum of Lilybeth’s magic started up, working its way under Jenny’s skin. “Spirit long gone, we call upon you,” Lilybeth said, soft and precise. “Rupert Giles, we call upon you. We ask for your presence in our sacred circle. We—”

A shudder ran through the room, and Jenny _felt_ something—a fleeting, half-panicked kiss against her cheek. _Rupert._ “Betsy, he’s here,” she said, almost a sob. “Betsy—”

But the room was going dark around them, enveloping Jenny in—oh, no, this was different. This was old and new in one, bringing back memories of her body moving without her permission, her mouth on Rupert’s without her permission, her hands digging into his hair without her permission—

 _“Jay!”_ said Lilybeth, almost a scream. “Janna, _Janna—!”_

Caught in the darkness, Jenny gasped, trying her hardest to find Rupert. She’d _felt_ him, she was sure, if only for a moment—but no, this was all Eyghon around her, and she could hear its ancient laughter in her ears. “SHUT UP,” she screamed. “LET ME HAVE HIM!”

And then strong arms _yanked_ her out of the circle, the darkness vanishing as quickly as if someone had flipped a switch. It took Jenny a moment to recognize the cold hardness of Angel’s grip on her, and all of a sudden, she was back in that night, back pressed against Angelus as he held her tightly to him in that hallway—

“Let me GO!” she shrieked, shoving herself away from him with all her might. Angel fell back—he hadn’t been holding her as tightly as she’d thought, Jenny realized dimly—but that didn’t seem _enough,_ not after she’d let him—let him _touch_ her with those hands that had ended Rupert’s life—

Jenny _lunged_ at Angel. She would have gotten him, too, if not for Lilybeth pulling her sharply back. “Blue Jay,” Lilybeth said, shaking and tearful. “What’s _happened_ to you? Stay with me. We can fix this.”

“No,” said Jenny, pulling away from Lilybeth. “No. Don’t touch me.” She was already moving back towards the circle.

Angel took a step towards her; Lilybeth tugged him back. “From what I’ve seen, she doesn’t take kindly to anyone’s hands on her,” Lilybeth was saying. “Especially not yours. _What_ did you do to her?”

Angel swallowed, hard. “You know at least a little bit about Angelus.”

“You _didn’t—”_ Lilybeth sounded horrified.

“Nothing you’re thinking of,” said Angel quietly, but he didn’t sound any less guilty. Good. Jenny hoped he was guilty for the rest of his fucking unlife. She moved towards the circle again, stepping inside.

Again, the darkness enveloped her. She could _almost_ feel Rupert—almost, but not quite. “Please,” Jenny begged. “Please let me see him. I need—I _need_ him, I need to see him, I—”

And again, the darkness vanished. Whirling, Jenny saw that Lilybeth had snuffed out one of the candles—and was now fixing her with a look that seemed a mixture of reproving and deeply concerned. “Blue Jay,” she said softly. “You have to know that you’re going too far.”

“I don’t care,” said Jenny numbly. “I don’t— _why_ would you stop me?”

“Because you’re my _friend,”_ said Lilybeth, tears in her eyes. “Because we’ve been friends for _years._ Because I know you well enough to know that you’re hurting in a way that—that no one can fix all the way but you.”

“It doesn’t _matter,”_ said Jenny, looking helplessly up at Lilybeth. “I _lost_ him. I’m the reason he’s dead. I put him in danger and he got killed and I-I have to fix it. I have to. I have to fix it, Betsy, I have t-to fix it—”

Angel was edging slowly out of the room. _“Oh_ no you don’t,” said Lilybeth sharply. “You’re the whole reason she’s a mess, Angel—you don’t get to slide your way out of fixing it. You think I haven’t noticed how quickly you’re willing to acquiesce whenever she asks something of you? Start drawing some lines before you two get someone hurt.”

Angel seemed somewhat abashed. Jenny _felt_ somewhat abashed. For a moment, she again felt that pinprick of _something—_ and perhaps it was the Jenny Calendar that had existed before Rupert Giles had bled to death in front of her. That woman, she knew, would never behave as she was behaving right now—vindictive, bitter, selfish—but then Jenny looked again at Angel, at the man who had held her close and made it _clear_ that he could break her, and she could no longer remember how to feel sympathy towards him. “Lilybeth, I need an answer,” she said. “A real one.”

“I’ve given you a real answer, Jay,” said Lilybeth quietly. “You’re just not listening to it.”

* * *

“So that was a bust,” said Jenny, starting up the car. Her windows had been properly tinted with a magic spell—enough that they didn’t let in any sunlight while still allowing her to see the road—and Angel looked considerably less worried about burning to a crisp. “We’ll have to hit up someone else next. Not Marianna, she’ll be just as moralistic as Lilybeth and I _don’t_ need that right now—”

“She might have had a point,” said Angel tentatively.

Slowly, Jenny turned to look at him. He was very pointedly looking away from her. “I’ve made it clear that I don’t like it when you talk,” she said.

Angel ignored this. “Ms. Calendar, you have to know this isn’t safe,” he said. “Lilybeth was right—you’re putting yourself in danger for the sake of something that might not even work correctly. Even if you _could_ find a workable necromancy ritual, Giles’s soul is tied to Eyghon, and that’s basically impossible to work around—”

“Yeah?” said Jenny. “Counterpoint: your very existence is proof that I’m able to make the impossible possible. Check and mate, asshole.”

“Anyone who cares about you is gonna tell you the same thing as Lilybeth and me.,” said Angel. “No one wants to see you get hurt—”

And then an _excellent_ idea came to Jenny, who let out a laughing breath. “God, you’re right!” she said. “You’re _right,_ Angel. I knew I brought you along for a reason!”

Angel’s face softened and relaxed, hope blooming in his eyes. “Yeah?”

“Of _course_ I can’t go to my friends,” said Jenny. “They’re all gonna be too focused on _protecting_ me, not _helping_ me. I have to go to someone who doesn’t give a shit about me. That’s the way to do it.”

Angel’s smile vanished. “I think you missed Lilybeth’s message,” he said.

“There’s a difference between missing a message and not listening to a message, Angel,” said Jenny matter-of-factly. “I think I know where we need to head next.”

* * *

“Welcome to—oh, it’s _Janna,”_ said Max derisively, glaring first at Jenny and then at Angel as they entered the little shop. “Come back to give me more shit about my unethical business practices?”

“Actually, I’m here to utilize them,” said Jenny.

Max arched an eyebrow. _“Really,”_ she said. “Last I heard, you thought I was a _talentless hack with no moral code who makes money off of people’s insecurities.”_

“Wow,” said Jenny. “You remembered that verbatim? I’m impressed.”

“I really don’t like this plan,” said Angel quietly, tugging at Jenny’s sleeve.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” said Jenny, turning around to give Angel a dangerously sweet smile. Turning back to Max, she said, “Listen, none of my friends are helping me out on this one—”

“Because it’s a suicide mission,” said Angel. “Please don’t leave out the fact that it’s a suicide mission.”

Max now looked _extremely_ interested. “You know, you’ve never struck me as the suicidal-blaze-of-glory type,” she said, leaning across the counter to get a closer look at Jenny. “What happened?”

Jenny considered the question. Then she said, “I lost someone very important to me. Actually,” jerking her thumb over her shoulder, “that idiot killed him.”

“Really sorry,” Angel mumbled.

“Shut the fuck up,” said Jenny to Angel. “Max, what do you know about necromancy?”

Max let out a low whistle. “Shit, man,” she said. “You’ve come to the wrong fuckin’ place for that. You know I only do low-grade tarot readings, and most of those are just me making shit up to try and get the customers to pay me more money.”

“God, you _are_ a talentless hack,” said Jenny, wrinkling her nose.

“I’m sorry,” said Max, “is this how you get people to help you? Do you have _any_ friends?”

“Well, my _best_ friend is dead,” said Jenny. “That’s the whole reason I’m asking for your help.” She stepped forward as well, resting her elbows on the counter so that her face was only a few inches away from Max’s. “You’re good at reading people, Max,” she said. “It’s part of the job. What do you read in me?”

Max held Jenny’s gaze, brow furrowed ever so slightly. A slow, intrigued smile spread across her face. “You’re hollowed out, Janna,” she said. “Nothing left but misery and spite. Y’know, even bringing him back isn’t gonna fix what losing him has done to you.”

Jenny flinched, drawing back.

“Things like that, they break you,” said Max, her smile growing. “And your guy’s not gonna be interested in sticking around to put you back together.”

 _This,_ Jenny thought. This felt more real than Lilybeth’s desperate, gentle words. “I’m not looking to fix myself,” she said. “I know I’m never going to be the woman I was, and I don’t need to be her. She wouldn’t have been strong enough to do what I’m ready to.”

“Ms. Calendar—” said Angel, all but desperately.

Max nodded, slow and thoughtful. “Okay,” she said. “Y’know what? Sure. I think I’m willing to help you do what you need to do.”

“Yeah?”

“I wasn’t kidding when I said _I_ can’t help you myself,” Max continued conversationally, “but I _can_ connect you to someone who might be able to.”

Jenny let out a half-sobbing breath. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” said Max, giving her that same spooky smile.

“Any particular reason you’re so ready to help our Ms. Calendar, Max?” said Angel, quiet and disapproving. “Kinda getting the sense you don’t like her all that much.”

Cryptically, and a little smugly, Max said, “Bringing back the dead is like trading with demons. You gotta give _exactly_ as much as you get—and I kinda like the thought of Jenny paying that price.”

“You know, Max,” said Jenny quietly, “I think that makes two of us.”


	15. on my own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy saturday i am a DISASTER and i hate that my tardiness is suddenly such a trend; this is what happens when i throw myself into a new writing project with gusto! got a reminder on my tumblr that this fic needs to go up! hopefully next friday i will remember in time and at the right time!
> 
> content warning: jenny continuing to go off the deep end.

Dite’s apartment was in a particularly seedy part of LA. Jenny had kind of been expecting this; after all, it wasn’t exactly like Max to keep good company. “Stay outside,” she informed Angel. “She won’t want you in here.”

“It’s noon,” said Angel.

“Congratulations!” said Jenny. “You can tell time.”

“No, I mean—” Angel shifted awkwardly in the shadows, doing his best to angle himself away from the sunlight.

 _Oh._ Right. Jenny plastered on her best I-Actually-Care-Whether-You-Live-Or-Die face (she really fucking didn’t) and said, “Okay. Stay in the car with the tinted windows. She won’t want you in here. Even assuming that she might buy it if I brought you and vouched for you not being a vicious killer, vampires have a tendency to throw off magic like this.”

“You mean dark magic,” said Angel. He still didn’t look very happy about this plan. “Ms. Calendar—”

“Go wait in the car,” said Jenny, and headed towards the apartment building, not bothering to look back. If Angel decided he wanted to follow her, that was _his_ idiotic decision, and she would very much enjoy seeing him get struck down by an angry warlock or something. She knocked three times on the glass doors, just like Max had told her to—and just like Max had said it would, the entire building rippled like a dissolving mirage.

“Password?” said a low voice.

“Belladonna,” said Jenny.

The building rippled again. What had once been a relatively unassuming set of glass doors was now a thin grey curtain, almost ghostlike as it rustled in a nonexistent breeze. Through it, Jenny could make out an abnormally inky blackness—far too dark to be normal darkness, she knew. This darkness was designed to hide something.

“Ms. Calendar—” Angel called again, but there wasn’t much fight to his voice—more of a sad warning than anything. Good. She hadn’t brought him here for him to start questioning her now. Without looking back at Angel, Jenny stepped through the curtain, letting the tendrils of darkness pull her in and swallow her up.

* * *

The darkness took some time to clear—either forever, or two seconds. Jenny wasn’t sure. What she _did_ know for certain was that when her vision returned to her, her head was almost pleasantly cloudy, a slow, sickly-sweet warmth coursing through her. It was the best she’d felt since—

The thought of Rupert cleared the last of the clouds from Jenny’s mind, bringing back the terrible, sharp clarity she had become so familiar with. She sat up abruptly, looking around without really taking in her surroundings; all she wanted to do was distract herself from thoughts of green eyes, and soft kisses, and—

“Oooh, impressive,” said a voice, and Jenny turned with some relief to look in the other woman’s direction. Dark red hair, dark red eyes, dark red lips—everything about Dite reminded Jenny very distinctly of _blood._ “You know, most people just get caught in my little web and don’t come up, but _you—_ something pulled you out of it. What was it? Power? Courage?”

“Love,” said Jenny, answering honestly without really meaning to.

 _“Love,”_ Dite repeated, almost mockingly. “You’re a little cutie.” She slid down from the chaise to lounge in front of Jenny instead, red eyes giving her the once-over with a sparkle of interest. “Latent,” she said. “Not a drop of magic within you. Who sent you to me?”

“Max,” said Jenny.

“God, what an annoying little brat,” said Dite. “At least she sent someone strong.” She raised a hand to Jenny’s face, tilting Jenny’s chin up to look at her more closely. “What did she tell you?”

“That you’d be able to help me,” said Jenny, meeting Dite’s gaze unflinchingly.

 _“Help,”_ said Dite, the same way she’d said _love._ “Why would I _help_ you? I don’t just go around handing out aid and assistance to latent magicians who can’t do their own fucking magic. You’ve gotta give me something in return, sweetheart.”

“What do you want?”

“Hmm.” Dite’s hand trailed down to rest on Jenny’s waist. Jenny’s stomach twisted at the touch. “I want something that you don’t want to give me.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Well, I don’t want to give you my help,” said Dite. “I think it’s pathetic, asking another person for help instead of fixing the damn problem yourself. I think you’d do a hell of a lot better if you either worked harder or gave up. But if you’re willing to give me something that you don’t want to give me, I think I’d be willing to give you something that _I_ don’t want to give _you.”_

“Oh?”

“Magic isn’t as simple as just _dark_ and _light,_ baby-latent,” said Dite. “It’s a component, sure, but there’s also an element of _balance_ to it. You can’t take without giving. You can’t give without taking.” She smiled, all sharp teeth. “Even us dark witches have a sense of equality.”

Jenny swallowed. “What do I have that I can give you?”

“You’re the only one that can answer that question,” said Dite. “What do you have that you never want to give up?”

Jenny stared at her for a long time, trying her best to sort through the sudden fog that had clouded her mind upon hearing that question. What _did_ she have? She had the kids—but no, she’d never _had_ them, they were Rupert’s and they loved her again only because she could bring Rupert back. She had her family—but no, she’d turned her back on them to help the man who had killed Rupert. She couldn’t even entertain the possibility that she had _ever_ had Rupert; a woman going to such lengths to bring him back wasn’t a woman worthy of having him in the first place.

“Nothing,” she said numbly. “Take what you will, Dite. I don’t care.”

That same fascinated sparkle returned to Dite’s eyes. “If I said I wanted to fuck you?”

“Fine.”

“If I said I wanted to kill you?”

“Sure.”

“If I said I wanted to kill the thing you love most in the world?”

Jenny raised her eyes to Dite’s. “The man I love is dead,” she said.

Dite’s smile was growing. “Oh, you _are_ an interesting one!” she said. “I’ll have to thank Max for sending _you_ my way.” She draped her arms around Jenny’s neck—oddly, it was more companionable than sexual—and pressed a lipstick-kiss to her cheek. “Poor thing,” Dite cooed. “In the wrong hands, who _knows_ what you might be capable of?”

Jenny tilted her head towards Dite. The darkness was growing around them, closing in, filling her head with that lovely, cloudy emptiness once again.

“And lucky for you,” Dite was saying, “my hands are as wrong as they can possibly be.”

The darkness moved around her, within her, running through her like blood, like water, like the things you needed to survive. She felt that cloying sweetness on her tongue and in her head, a sort of _wrong-right_ feeling that blotted out his face, his eyes—god, she could barely remember him even if she was trying to, which she wasn’t, because all that mattered was the nothingness around her. She could sink into it and never come out. She could sink into it and forget herself.

“Oh, this is _fun,”_ Dite sighed from somewhere far away. “There’s something to be said for naïve little latents—I can fill you _top to toe_ with magics like a little mason jar. How does that feel, baby-latent? Do you like it?”

Jenny closed her eyes and opened them again. “What are you taking from me?” she said. Her voice came out strange—not quite like her own.

“The only thing you have left,” said Dite. “You’re empty no longer, sweetie. You’re full of dark, witchy goodness, and that’s _more_ than enough to interest a demon in helping you.”

“Full of—”

“Magic,” said Dite.

The darkness began to clear again, but when it had, the blood-red of Dite’s lips had dulled to a strange, muted brown. Everything around her was different, now—all of the colors around her more solemn than vibrant. Jenny felt hazy and strange—and _better,_ somehow. The clear, sharp focus with which she’d chased Dite down was entirely gone.

“You’ll get used to it,” said Dite, patting Jenny’s shoulder. “You’ve been empty for quite a while. Having magic—even if it’s only borrowed—is going to take a little while to adjust to.”

“Magic?” Jenny repeated thickly.

“The darkest of the dark,” said Dite affectionately.

Jenny raised her hand, flexing her fingers. She felt the ebb and flow of power within her, and wished she cared enough to be happy about it. This was what people wanted, wasn’t it? She should care, shouldn’t she?

“Will it bring him back?” she said.

“I’m getting to that,” said Dite. “This is the part of the deal where _I_ help _you.”_

“How did I help you?” said Jenny. Her words still came more slowly than she was used to—body still brimming over with magic, she felt absurdly weighed down. “I think I missed that part.”

Dite placed her hand directly over Jenny’s heart. “I’m a dark witch, darling,” she said. “Corrupting an innocent is always a fun thing for me to do.”

Jenny laughed, harsh and bitter. The anger she felt at Dite’s words cut through her lethargy. “I’m not an innocent,” she said.

“Not _now_ you’re not,” said Dite.

“Cut the crap,” said Jenny. “How do I get him back?”

Dite considered the question. After a long moment, she reached into a cleverly-hidden pocket on her dress, pulling out an old, beaten-down compass with cracked glass and a wobbling needle. “Let this lead you to the answer,” she said.

“Seriously?” said Jenny. “I let you pump me full of magic and this bullshit is all I get?”

“Well, _someone’s_ feeling better!” Dite patted Jenny’s shoulder with a little laugh. “I’m not _that_ helpful, honey. The path of darkness is one you have to walk alone, after a time—and you’ve finally reached that time. Consider yourself lucky that you’ve even got something to help direct you.”

Jenny let out a frustrated breath. “Fine,” she said. “Do I get to go now?”

Dite smiled slightly. “I suppose so,” she said. “I _must_ thank you for stopping by, baby-latent. You’ve made my day a little more interesting and a _lot_ more fun.”

“Yeah, whatever,” said Jenny, and stood, looking down at the compass. The needle was pointing behind her, so she turned, heading out of the room and back into the inky darkness. It felt different, now: less unfamiliar. Less like it was weighing her down.

 _Home,_ she thought. The word brought back that familiar emptiness, just for a moment.

* * *

“Ms. Calendar,” said Angel when she got into the car, “what _happened?_ You—”

“Save it,” said Jenny, placing the compass on the dashboard and starting the car.

“No, I-I don’t think I _should,”_ said Angel, sounding genuinely unsettled. “What’s going on? You feel different.”

“Your vamp senses pick up on that one?” Jenny began to drive, paying careful attention to the needle of the compass. A minute twitch, and then it was pointing to the right; she made the appropriate turn. “I’ve been like this since you sliced Rupert to ribbons. _Keep up!”_ The last two words were all but snarled: the magics were bubbling under her skin, hot enough to boil and burn, and they _didn’t_ like Angel at all.

Angel flinched back, then said a little more quietly, “All right. I—I know you’re figuring this out. I understand. If you need any help—”

Jenny let out a derisive laugh, eyes on the road. The compass needle twitched again, pointing left. She took the next turn. _“Help,”_ she said mockingly. “What _help_ are you? You’re dead weight, Angel, and if you don’t shut up about how _different_ I feel, I’m throwing you out of this car and letting the sunlight burn you to a crisp.”

Angel swallowed, turning his attention to the window.

As Jenny continued to drive, the compass needle became less twitchy and more steady when it told her to change direction. The magics within her were beginning to help as well—they tugged at her senses, an eerie intuition helping direct her towards whatever it was the compass wanted her to find. _Right,_ she thought, putting on her turn signal. _Left,_ and she turned again. _Straight ahead, and then—_

She stopped the car. The compass needle was pointing, unwavering, towards a building directly on her right.

“Ms. Calendar,” said Angel through gritted teeth. Cars behind them had started to honk.

“Hold them off,” said Jenny. “Or drive around the block. I don’t care.” Picking up the compass, she got out of the car, ignoring the angry shouts of pissed-off LA drivers as she headed towards the building in question. Striding up the steps, Jenny hurried through the mystery building’s doors, turning slowly on the spot to take in her surroundings.

 _Library,_ said the magics—but Jenny hadn’t really needed magical intuition to figure _that_ one out. Wall-to-wall bookcases stretched to reach the high ceilings, the air tasted musty and rich in the way that places full of old books always seemed to, and sitting at a desk in the center of the room was—

 _“Rupert!”_ gasped Jenny, forgetting herself. Gone was the dull, magical haze—all that mattered was wrapping him up in her arms. She ran forward, all but tripping over her own feet in her haste to get to him—and felt a clawed hand grip down on her shoulder, pulling her back. “What—”

The thing that very clearly wasn’t Rupert Giles stood up from its desk, looking at Jenny with a polite interest. “Her magic is dark, but it is borrowed, and she does not wield it to harm the books,” it said in Rupert’s voice, and the clawed hand dropped from Jenny’s shoulder. To Jenny, it said, “Rare is it that I am visited like this. What brings you to the Repository?”

In answer, Jenny flipped her hand over and opened her fist, displaying the compass in her palm. It was pointing directly towards Rupert—which, she thought, was some kind of irony. “Why are you wearing his face?” she asked, feeling a confusing mixture of anger and fear.

“I am the designated librarian for the Repository,” said the thing that wasn’t Rupert. “I do my best to make my guests feel comfortable. I assume the face I wear right now is the face you think of when you hear the word _librarian,_ yes?”

“Yes,” said Jenny warily.

“Then this is who I am to you,” said the librarian. “Your librarian. Here to serve you in any way I can.”

The magics _liked_ the way that sounded. Jenny told them to shut the fuck up. “This compass led me here,” she said. “Do you have any idea why that is?”

The librarian shook its head. “None at all,” it said. “My job is simply to keep the books safe, and to aid those who need a specific book. If you have a title, an author, a subject, a section…”

“Necromancy,” said Jenny.

She was expecting the librarian to do a double-take of some kind, like Lilybeth and Max and even Dite for a moment. But the librarian just nodded, pointed in the same direction as the compass, and said, “Careful with the ladder. It’s somewhat rickety.”

 _“Necromancy,”_ Jenny repeated, somewhat startled.

“I did hear you,” said the librarian politely.

“You’re not really gonna just…hand me books on dark and dangerous magic, are you?” said Jenny disbelievingly. “Don’t you want to know why I need them or something?”

“The Repository’s sole purpose is to connect its visitors with the books they are searching for,” said the librarian matter-of-factly. “It’s as simple as that.”

And maybe it was because she was face-to-face with someone that looked so _much_ like Rupert—save for the absence of that warm softness in its eyes—but something of the woman that Jenny had been before Angelus was revived by his words. “They’re dangerous books,” said Jenny unsteadily. “Aren’t you going to try and stop me?”

 _Please,_ she thought. _Please try and stop me._

“Necromancy,” said the librarian, and pointed again in the same direction. “Careful with the ladder.”

The heaviness returned to her, dulling her senses again in a way that was beginning to feel more like a hindrance than a comfort. Jenny followed the compass, paying close attention to every little twitch of the needle, and found her way towards a section of the library shrouded almost entirely in darkness.

Squinting, she tried to make out the titles—she could clearly see the _N_ on the spine of one of the books, but that was pretty much all she could decipher. Still, the compass needle was pointing directly at the book, so Jenny picked it up, stepping out of the shadows to get a better look at it.

 _Night Monsters,_ it said.

Well, _that_ wasn’t right. Frowning, Jenny moved to put the book back—and stopped. Both the magics _and_ the compass seemed to be telling her that this was the book she needed. Sitting awkwardly down on the floor, Jenny opened the book in her lap, then brought magic to her fingertips. The pages rustled, slowly at first, then faster, until they finally fell to a stop to reveal a strange, sketchy lithograph—a room cast in shadow, save for two electric-violet dots in one of the darkest places.

 _UMBRA,_ read the caption.

The name rang a bell. A _big_ bell, actually. Slowly, Jenny dug in the pocket of her leather jacket, bringing out the first of the crumpled-up notes that Angel had delivered to her.

* * *

_UMBRA_

_—patron of darkness_

_—mostly just a legend_

_—feeds off of fear: the more fear in its victim, the more power it has_

* * *

This couldn’t be a coincidence. The magics humming with sharp anticipation within her, Jenny began to read the accompanying passage.

* * *

_Little is known of the Shadow. Much like the First Evil, Umbra has existed since time immemorial—but unlike its similarly-minded counterpart, Umbra’s existence is tied to the physical rather than the metaphorical. It lives only in the darkness, and cannot survive in the light. Though the First merely enjoys creating fear in the hearts of mortals for its own amusement, for Umbra, the creation of fear is an absolute necessity: its power grows and is sustained by pain, shame, guilt, and self-hatred._

_Umbra is bound by certain constraints: tradition requires it to tell only the truth, and it is honor-bound to complete any deals it makes. However, as a creature of darkness, it uses nebulous uncertainties against those who might wish to cut a deal with it. Utilizing loopholes is Umbra’s specialty._

_Umbra has lain dormant for centuries, largely because of the strength of its power: those who have attempted to make deals with Umbra are always destroyed by the Shadow’s corrupting force. It takes a particular delight in fulfilling its disciples’ specific requests, then slowly and methodically destroying the lives, hearts, and souls of the disciples—and because of the time and energy it pours into dissecting one specific person, it does not have the strength to spread its dark influence very far._

_Umbra possesses power as great as the misery of its victims, which is why it is most often invoked in an attempt to bring back loved ones._

* * *

Jenny had to bite back a gasp. She didn’t really want to be interrupted by the librarian—there was something terribly macabre about Rupert’s face looking at her with those placid, impassive, definitely-inhuman eyes—and so she continued to read.

* * *

_Unfortunately, grief alone is not enough to bring back the dead: unless significant guilt and shame is tied to the lost soul, Umbra is powerless to bring it back._

* * *

Absurdly, Jenny smiled down at the lithograph, a strange, sick happiness rising up in her along with the magics. The way she felt—the way she _knew_ it was her fault—the price Umbra would undoubtedly ask her to pay—this was perfect. This was a fucking _godsend._ Her guilt over Rupert’s death was _more_ than enough to bring him back, and she was _more_ than willing to die the way she deserved to. She let out a breathless, broken laugh, wiping away a single tear. God, why was she crying _now?_ She’d found the way—

She could fix things. She could—

Carefully, Jenny set the book down on the floor, burying her face in her hands as she began to cry. Softly at first, then ugly, painful sobs, tears the likes of which she hadn’t cried since the night she’d found Rupert. Curling inwards, she reminded herself, over and over, that her death was going to make the world a better place.

* * *

“Ms. Calendar, you’re—are you okay?” said Angel softly when she got back into the car.

“Stop asking me that,” said Jenny. Turning to look at him, she found herself feeling…nothing. Not anger. Not hate. Not _anything._ It didn’t matter what she felt about him—or anything, really. Bringing back Rupert for good would mean she’d never see Angel—or anyone—again, and she felt as though she should feel bereft, but she _didn’t._ She just felt…numb. “We’re going to be heading to England.”

“…what?” said Angel.

“There’s a castle,” said Jenny. “I have the address. It’s the last place anyone ever saw Umbra.”

Angel went _white._ Jenny hadn’t even known that vampires could get paler, but he very clearly had. “What,” he said.

It wasn’t really a question, but Jenny decided to treat it as one anyway. “You told me about Umbra, remember?” she said. “I found some more information at that library. The librarian was happy to help me out. We’re gonna go track it down and get it to bring Rupert back.”

“Ms. Calendar— _Jenny,”_ said Angel, and reached out towards her, then visibly thought better of it. “Jenny, you _have_ to understand that there are some things—” He swallowed. “Some things that we can’t change,” he said. “No matter how much we want to. I’m sorry, but—if you’re going through with this, I don’t know if I can help you in good conscience.”

“You don’t _have_ a good conscience,” said Jenny. “I’m not turning back now, though, so I can drop you off somewhere after sunset or you can keep going with me.”

Angel hesitated, then said kind of quietly, “I’ll keep going.”

Jenny sighed. “Listen, Angel,” she said, turning fully to look at him, “I know I’ve been unfair to you, but you have to understand, you’re really fucking annoying. You keep on crying about how _sorry_ you are and how much you _don’t want me hurt_ or whatever, but as soon as I push you on your stupid ideas like _not letting me do what I need to do,_ you cave pretty much immediately. If you’re going to keep me company in England, you are _not_ going to say another word about how _worried_ you are about me, okay?”

“Jenny—”

 _“Don’t_ call me that,” spat Jenny. “You don’t _get_ to call me that. My name is—” With a horrible jolt, she realized that she didn’t know _what_ her name was. Jenny was dead. Janna was a failure. What was left for this strange, broken shadow of a woman?

Luckily, Angel finished the sentence for her. “Ms. Calendar,” he said. “I know. I-I’m sorry. I know I don’t have the right to—”

“Don’t even bother to finish that thought,” said Jenny. “Whatever it is, I agree.”

Starting up the car, she began to run through vague, tentative plans for their flight to England. No plane could guarantee complete and total darkness, but speed was of the essence; she supposed Angel would just have to risk it with some lie about a sun allergy. They wouldn’t have reservations, but she had directions; they could always just sleep in the car if needed.

It would be fine when they got there, Jenny decided. She’d figure it out. She’d ask around.

Or maybe—

She looked down at her hands, bringing little violet sparks to her fingertips. Rupert had always said the magic scene in England was dangerously seductive, hadn’t he? If she was going to be dead pretty soon, it might be time to have one last night of consequence-free fun.


	16. take me through the darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy friday! look at me FINALLY updating on time and NOT making it a habit of updating late for an ENTIRE MONTH!!!!! this chapter marks the end of part two, so i'm probs gonna post the next interlude on tuesday!
> 
> content warning for jenny, as per usual.

Their hotel room was an expensive one, because at this point, Jenny had given up on caring about things like finances and responsible spending and not blowing her entire life savings on an impromptu trip to England. If her days were numbered—and she honestly preferred them that way—she was going to try and make them relatively livable, and a first-class suite did help boost her mood.

Angel didn’t seem to be feeling quite as cheerful. “How much did this cost you?” he was saying, taking off his heavy black jacket and rubbing at the burned areas that his head-to-toe covering hadn’t _quite_ managed to keep protected from the sun. “First the plane ride, now this—”

“Why do you care?” said Jenny bluntly.

“This isn’t like you,” said Angel.

“Oh, and you know me _so_ well?” Jenny took off her leather jacket, throwing it onto one of the beds. “I’m going out. Stay in or don’t. They gave you a room key, so you should probably be able to get back in, right? They _would_ have known your face if you hadn’t shown up in that stupid ski mask.”

“It’s _sun protection,”_ said Angel. “Seeing as you _insisted_ on a plane.” He moved towards her; she stepped back and found herself up against the wall. “Ms. Calendar,” he said plaintively, “I-I’m—” Clearly struggling with himself, he finally said, “I _know_ you said it’s not my place to worry—”

“You never _fucking_ listen to me,” said Jenny. “What is even the point of having you around? All you do is complain.”

“You _asked_ me to come—”

“Because I thought having some muscle between me and the monsters would keep me safe!” said Jenny with irritation. “But you know what, I don’t need that now, so you can just—”

“Wait,” said Angel. “You don’t need that now?”

“Don’t interrupt me,” said Jenny. “What I’m saying is—”

“No, I think I _will_ interrupt you,” said Angel suddenly, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, you _don’t need that now?”_

“I mean _I don’t need that now,”_ said Jenny dismissively. “What is there to dissect about that?”

“A lot,” said Angel, and moved again, angling himself so that he was blocking the door. Jenny’s stomach turned at the intense look in his eyes. “Look, I’ve put up with a lot from you,” he said. “I really have. I’ve taken every blow you’ve thrown at me because you and I both know it was a kindness to give me back my soul instead of killing me on the spot. I want to help you bring back Giles, and I want to help make things better, but I’m not gonna do it if it means another death on my conscience.”

“You’re not fucking serious,” said Jenny.

“I’m _very_ serious.” Angel took a step forward. Reflexively, Jenny tried to move back, but the wall behind her meant that she was all but trapped. “Ms. Calendar, you have me on your side,” he said. “All the way. But you’re not gonna throw yourself into things you can’t handle without getting stopped. Whatever it is you’re setting yourself up to do—”

“You think you feel enough guilt for Rupert to bring him back?” Jenny spat. “You think you _hurt_ enough that your guilt will mean _anything_ to a demon that feeds on fear? Your guilt comes from a place of self-flagellation and self-hatred. It’s _justified.”_ She stepped forward and into him, placing her hands on his chest and pushing _hard._

But Angel didn’t move. Looking down at her with that same hard expression, he said, “And your guilt _isn’t_ just amplified self-hatred?”

“My guilt doesn’t come from me knowing that there are demons under my skin,” said Jenny coolly. “My guilt comes from me _knowing_ that my actions let a monster run free. A monster feeling bad because it killed someone—that’s redundant, pointless, and self-centered. Killing Rupert was exactly what Angelus wanted to do, and you know it, and _that’s_ what you’re upset about. Not his death.”

Angel blanched. _That_ made him step back.

“And that’s why I’m not fucking interested in you laying your life down,” said Jenny. “Not to _mention_ that it’s not your _job_ to save mine. I’m an adult, Angel. I’m making my choices.”

“And if they _kill you?”_ said Angel fiercely. “I can’t let you do that—”

“Why?” Jenny demanded.

“I’ve been the cause of too many deaths—”

“Well, maybe mine will be the one that makes you STOP KILLING PEOPLE!” Jenny screamed. “You _disgusting_ asshole, are you seriously trying to stop me because you don’t want to _add to your body count?_ What about _me,_ huh? What about _Rupert?_ Are our deaths just fucking statistics to you? Is that all that we’re ever gonna be?”

“That’s _not—!”_

“Oh, it _never_ is,” Jenny hissed, the magics roiling within her like it was high tide. “No, because you feel _sorry._ Because you have a _soul._ Because that makes you a _good person—_ that you feel _sad_ about the raping and the murdering and the torturing. That makes you _better_ than all the other vampires—because you _cried_ about doing it three years after you did it.” She stepped forward again, shoving Angel up against the wall, and the magics gave her strength enough to pin him there. He struggled, but couldn’t break free. “Fuck you,” she whispered.

Angel looked genuinely afraid. “Jenny,” he said. His voice was shaking. “What’s happened to you?”

And Jenny laughed—a cold, hollow sound that made her feel just a little bit better. That was a damn easy question to answer, she thought. Jenny Calendar would never have these magics in her, filling the emptiness with that sick, terrible warmth. Jenny Calendar wouldn’t pin Angel up against a wall like this. Jenny Calendar wouldn’t be giving up her life like this. Whoever she was— _whatever_ she was—she wasn’t Jenny Calendar anymore.

“Please,” said Angel, a sob in his voice. “Giles wouldn’t want this for you.”

And that was what did it. Dite’s borrowed magics at her fingertips, the witch called upon the stake she’d tucked into her leather jacket an eternity ago. It zoomed across the room, embedding itself— _hard—_ in Angel’s chest. He looked at her with horrified, disbelieving eyes for only a moment—and then he dissolved into dust.

“Don’t you ever tell me what Giles would want,” said the witch to the empty room. “Giles is _dead._ You’ve long deserved the same.”

* * *

“Password?”

In answer, the witch raised a ball of violet flame to the door. “I don’t think I need one,” she said simply.

The guy smiled slightly, opening the door all the way. “Fair point,” he said. “Always nice to have a newcomer. What’s your name?”

“Angel,” said the witch. It wasn’t as though _he_ was using it.

“Angel,” the guy repeated, and laughed raucously. “You sure this is the right place for you, _Angel?”_

“I’m more of a Lucifer than a Gabriel,” said the witch, and gave the guy a small, sharp smile. “Word on the street is this is the _exact_ right place for me.” She stepped in, surveying the place: loud music, dimmed lights, people sprawled on the floor in strange little clusters. “Anyone need an extra?”

Two people looked up with interest. The witch didn’t know who they were, and didn’t really care to find out. “Good,” she said, sitting down next to them. “Deal me in.”

“This isn’t cards, sweet thing,” said the man next to her.

“Very aware,” said the witch. “I’m speaking in metaphors. What are we doing tonight?”

“Blood magic, today,” said the woman. “And since _you’re_ new, I think we’ll expect you to draw first blood.” She passed the witch a sharp dagger, then pushed a small clay bowl towards her, looking expectantly upwards. “You know the ropes, right?”

The witch knew the _theory,_ of course. Though neither Janna nor Jenny had practiced blood magic, the latter had researched enough magical theory to know what to do. She cut a thin line across her palm, then squeezed her hand into a fist, letting the blood drip down into the clay bowl. She counted to ten, then relaxed her cut hand, pushing the bowl towards the man and handing him the dagger.

The man and woman followed suit. Then the woman dipped her index finger in the mixture of blood, using her other hand to motion for the witch to move forward.

The witch leaned across the circle, letting the woman paint careful sigils on her face. “This better be the good stuff,” she said. “Tonight’s my last night on earth.”

“Oooh, _fun,”_ said the woman with interest. “You someone’s disciple?”

The witch thought of Rupert’s soft, sea-green eyes. “Something like that.”

“Well, we’ll make this some of the _best_ stuff,” said the woman, who was now painting similar sigils on the man’s face.

“You better,” said the witch.

It took the woman a little while longer to finish first the man’s face, and then her own face. She lit a candle, then, placing it in the middle of their little circle, and whispered some words in a language that Jenny Calendar might have once cared enough to know. The witch only cared about the way the flame rose and fluttered, as if caught in a harsh breeze—and then flared up, bright and unnaturally white-hot, illuminating all three of them as something roared to life between them.

The witch’s head jerked back and her vision whited out, but she still felt acutely aware of her body. She felt frustrated by it—it was as though it was weighing her down, tethering her to something she no longer felt like she could be part of any longer. She wanted to be away from this world and its pain, but the magic—was it enough? Would it ever be?

 _Release me,_ she thought. _Please._

* * *

She remembered him more than ever, that night, in a way that cut through the haze and made it feel like he was holding her. Maybe it was the blood magic. Maybe some part of him was still left in her, somehow. Maybe he’d kissed her hard enough to bruise and bleed. Maybe his hands had dug into her hips that night before Angelus, the one where they were scared that it would be their last night together _like that._ Maybe with the magic coursing through her, warm and electric in a way that felt _almost_ like Rupert had inside her, the memories were coming to the surface, painful and wonderful and _good_ in a way that nothing in her life would ever be again.

And yet, in tandem, she _couldn’t_ remember him. The magics clouded her head when she tried to think of what he might have wanted for the woman he might have loved. She thought that she should feel like she was missing something—darkness and magic and losing Jenny Calendar hadn’t dulled her love for him, after all—but all she could feel was a profound sense of relief. Memories of him would make this so much harder.

* * *

When she came up for air, coming back to her body and down from the magic, the blood felt crusty and strange on her face, and the cut on her hand was gone. A by-product of blood magic, thought the witch: what was given was sometimes returned. The sun was slowly rising, reddish-orange light streaming in through the windows and revealing others sprawled, similarly, across the floor—recovering from a night of revelry. Resting their bodies for another one.

The witch had no nights left. All that mattered now was finding that castle. Pulling herself up off the floor, she headed through the room and out the door, stepping out into the dawn and leaving the strange little hideaway behind. No one seemed to really notice—or care—that she was leaving. She had expected as much. Places like this were a haven for self-centered, self-involved people; she supposed it was only natural that she’d found her way here as well.

She caught sight of her reflection in a nearby window: face streaked with blood, eyes hollow and empty, borrowed magic still sparking all around her. She tried to remember what she had seen the last time she’d looked at herself like this. _Wrongness,_ she’d remembered thinking—but this felt only ever right.

 _A bad bitch,_ she thought, not entirely sure where the words came from. They didn’t feel like they belonged to her—and yet the magics told her that they might be important.

Her journey wasn’t over yet. God, she wanted it to be over. She had lost so much—too much—in the span of only a few days. All that she remembered was the importance of her mission—of bringing back someone who would make others happy. Bringing back Angel, too, she supposed; Rupert wouldn’t be happy if Buffy wasn’t happy, and it probably wouldn’t be too hard for a monster to bring back another monster. But that would be a problem for Umbra, when she found him, because the witch would die and the world would stop being something that she had to puzzle her way through.

The witch raised the tiny scrap of paper to her eyes, reading it again, even though the address was still burned into her memory. The castle was a strange place, hidden by magics in much the same way as Dite’s spooky little apartment, and so the witch would have to make sure she followed the librarian’s instructions to the letter. Scrubbing awkwardly at the dried blood on her face—and well aware that this wouldn’t make much difference in making her look presentable—the witch began to walk, thinking only of the last steps she would have to take.

* * *

The castle was miles away. The witch walked. Taxis wouldn’t want to take a woman with dried blood smeared on her face—regardless of what percentage of said blood was her own and what she was willing to tip them—and besides which, she didn’t feel like making any part of this journey easier on herself. Pain and exhaustion meant something outside herself to focus on, beyond what she had done to get to this point. As long as she wasn’t Jenny Calendar, she was able to keep walking.

If ever she thought of Rupert, or Angel, or the children back in Sunnydale, abandoned so easily in Jenny’s stupid, selfish, pointless crusade—

Jenny’s soft heart would be the witch’s undoing. Gritting her teeth, infuriated by her own weakness, the witch kept walking.

It was dusk by the time the witch finally found her way to the location the librarian had directed her to: a small, untidy little cottage in a residential area, looking shockingly normal for something that supposedly held shadows and malice and power. The witch frowned, feeling a moment of doubt—but no, she had already checked the address twice. This had to be it.

_Unless the librarian was wrong._

Fear was wrapping itself around the witch like a cloak—and that in itself made her ever more sure that this was the right place to be. She stepped across the threshold, standing still on the little cobblestone path as the librarian had instructed her to do, and watched impassively as the world warped and changed around her. One by one, the stars went out, until only the moon was left—and then it, too, vanished, leaving the witch in a pitch-black emptiness.

She didn’t say anything. The librarian had been very clear about what she would need to do: _you must wait for it to make itself known._

For what could have been seconds, minutes, or hours, the world was still, the witch quietly drowning in that stifling nothingness. She waited, still, her mind blessedly blank: if this was the rest of her life, she wouldn’t mind it too much. There was nothing for her to think about now that she’d reached her destination.

* * *

WHO ARE YOU, TRAVELER?

* * *

The voice cut through the emptiness. The question took the witch aback. “I was Janna,” she said, “and then I was Jenny, and now…” She trailed off. “I think I’m a witch.”

BORROWED POWER DOES NOT MAKE ONE A WITCH, said the voice, low and whispering and all around her. BUT IF IT MAKES YOU MORE AT EASE, I WILL CALL YOU BY THAT NAME. WHY DO YOU SEEK AN AUDIENCE WITH ME, WITCH?

“I want to bring someone back,” said the witch.

AND WHO IS THIS SOMEONE?

“Rupert Giles.”

I DO NOT ASK HIS NAME, said the voice. WHO IS THIS SOMEONE TO YOU?

The witch had to consider this question. “He’s—I love him.”

HOW DO YOU LOVE HIM?

“He saved me, I think,” said the witch. “Loving him made me…” She trailed off. _Someone better,_ she’d wanted to say—but that better, in-love Jenny Calendar wouldn’t have found herself here.

LIKE THE KNIGHTS OF OLD, said the voice, a touch of mocking amusement to it. HE IS YOUR KNIGHT, THEN, AND YOU HIS LADY?

It seemed an adequate enough metaphor. “Sure,” said the witch.

AND YOU WISH HIM BACK? said the voice. WHERE IS HE NOW?

“Dead,” said the witch. Deciding to continue the whole knight metaphor, she tacked on, “Struck down in battle.”

DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?

“I’m hoping that you’re Umbra,” said the witch. “I’ve heard you’ve brought back the dead before.”

A brief silence. DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU ASK ME FOR?

“I’m asking you for something that I’ll have to pay a heavy price for,” said the witch.

Another silence, longer this time. Then, DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR PRICE WILL BE?

“A life for a life, right?” said the witch. “You kill me, Rupert comes back.”

Following that, the silence was so drawn-out and weighty that the witch almost thought that Umbra had left her. Then, YOU ARE MISINFORMED, LADY WITCH. BRINGING BACK THE DEAD IS NOT SO SIMPLE. TO BALANCE THE SCALES OF JUSTICE, YOU MUST GIVE ME SOMETHING EQUAL TO THE LIFE OF YOUR KNIGHT—AND YOUR DEATH IS NOT EQUAL TO THAT.

The witch felt something inside her shatter. “What?”

IF DEATH IS ALL YOU HAVE TO OFFER ME, THEN THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO TO HELP YOU, said Umbra. The darkness began to recede.

“No—” The witch clutched at the darkness, trying to pull it back around her. “ _No!_ No, please, I—I’ll give you _anything—”_

The darkness stopped. Though it wasn’t as deep and fathomless as it had been before—she thought she could make out a star or two—it also wasn’t pulling away. ANYTHING?

“Anything,” the witch confirmed, hot tears pricking her eyes. “Please. Anything to bring him back.”

The darkness began to close in around her again, and as the last star winked out, the witch felt a profound sense of relief. TO BRING BACK A LIFE, said Umbra, I WILL NEED A LIFE AS FORFEIT.

“Yes, of course, yes,” said the witch with relief.

YOU MISUNDERSTAND ME STILL, LADY WITCH, said Umbra. YOU THINK I AM ASKING YOU TO DIE FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR KNIGHT. I AM ASKING YOU, INSTEAD, TO LIVE—IN MISERY AND IN PAIN—FOR A YEAR’S TIME, BEFORE YOU GIVE YOUR LIFE FULLY TO ME.

Even in darkness, the witch blinked, expecting to open her eyes again and find things slightly clearer. “Wait,” she said. “What?”

YOU WILL HIDE YOURSELF AWAY FROM THOSE YOU LOVE FOR A YEAR’S TIME, said Umbra. YOU WILL LIVE ONLY IN MY DOMAIN, WITH NONE YOU LOVE AS COMPANY. YOU WILL LIVE FOR A YEAR’S TIME AS MY FAITHFUL SERVANT, AND YOU WILL RENOUNCE THE NAME OF JENNY. IN RETURN, AT THE END OF A YEAR’S TIME, I WILL REPAY YOUR SERVITUDE WITH THE LIFE OF YOUR KNIGHT, RESTORED IN FULL.

“A _year?”_ the witch echoed. “That’s—I can’t! There are people who _need_ him here, _now—”_

I DO NOT CARE FOR YOUR NEEDS.

“I’m not _talking_ about me,” said the witch, frustrated. “I’m talking about—about the people he protected. His children. _They_ need him. I can’t agree to your deal if it means that people other than me have to suffer for a year.”

YOU KNOW WHO I AM, said Umbra. YOU KNOW I LIVE OFF OF SUFFERING—AND YOURS SEEMS A GREATER BOUNTY THE LONGER I KNOW YOU.

“If my bounty is so great,” said the witch flatly, “then you’ll want to agree to my terms. I can give you a year of suffering, but I _won’t_ let you have a year of suffering from those children. They aren’t part of the deal.” She chose her next words carefully. “It would be _dishonorable_ to tie them to a deal they had no part in making.”

Another long silence. Slowly, Umbra said, YOU ARE A CLEVER ONE, LADY WITCH.

“I have to be,” said the witch. “There’s a lot I have to lose.”

Umbra considered. Then it said, HOW, THEN, WOULD YOU REMOVE THE CHILDREN FROM THIS DEAL WE ARE STRIKING?

The witch didn’t have to think about this one. She’d given this part a lot of thought on the plane to England, and it didn’t change too much with her alive and hidden away. “Alter reality,” she said. “Change it. Make it so that I died instead of him.”

YOU ARE ASKING MUCH OF ME, LADY WITCH.

“Well—” Something occurred to the witch, then—something that might have the possibility to sway Umbra. “After my knight died, I brought back the soul of a vampire,” she said. “An evil, terrible creature of the night. Rewriting reality to make my death real would mean bringing a monster back into the world.”

AN INTRIGUING PROSPECT, said Umbra. IS THIS VAMPIRE STILL ALIVE NOW?

“I—no,” said the witch. “No. He’s dead. I killed him.”

HMM, said Umbra. AND REWRITING REALITY WOULD BRING HIM BACK, GREAT AND TERRIBLE AS EVER. A contemplative silence, then: I WILL NEED AN ANCHOR FOR THIS SPELL. SOMEONE WITH STRONG AND POWERFUL MAGICAL ENERGY. SOMEONE CLOSE TO YOUR KNIGHT.

“An anchor,” the witch repeated.

I DO NOT HAVE THE POWER TO REWRITE REALITY, said Umbra, AND EVEN IF I DID, I WOULD NOT CHOOSE TO. I HAVE ALREADY STATED THAT YOUR LIFE MUST REMAIN INTACT, AS YOU MUST GIVE YOURSELF WILLINGLY TO ME. HOWEVER, I DO HAVE THE POWER TO CALL BACK THE SOUL OF YOUR KNIGHT—ENOUGH SO THAT THE WORLD MIGHT THINK HIM ALIVE. THEIR MEMORIES WOULD TRICK THEM INTO BELIEVING THAT YOUR KNIGHT WALKS AMONG THE LIVING, SPEAKS TO THEM, TOUCHES THEM—WHEN IN ACTUALITY HE REMAINS ONLY A… It trailed off. A SHADOW, it said, sounding amused by its own cleverness.

“So everyone would _think_ my knight was alive,” said the witch slowly, “had always _been_ alive, except…he’s not? And still isn’t?”

IN A YEAR’S TIME, said Umbra, BEFORE YOU TURN YOUR LIFE OVER TO ME, I WILL ALLOW YOU TO BRING HIM BACK IN FULL.

“You’ll what?”

TRADITION IS STILL IMPORTANT TO ME, said Umbra, AND YOUR LOVE FOR HIM IS THE ONLY GOODNESS LEFT IN YOU. I WISH FOR YOU TO SNUFF OUT THAT FLAME BEFORE YOU GIVE YOURSELF TO ME.

“How?” said the witch shakily. “It’s—it’s all I have left. How can I possibly—”

I WILL PLACE YOUR KNIGHT IN AN ENCHANTED SLEEP, said Umbra. WHEN THE TIME COMES, YOUR KISS WILL WAKE HIM. YOUR SUNLIGHT WILL KEEP HIM ALIVE, AND MY SHADOWS WILL KEEP YOU ALIVE. ANY LOVE AND LIGHT IN YOU WILL BE HIS.

“Oh,” said the witch, and she almost smiled. “So at the end of the year, I kiss him, and that brings him back to life?”

PRECISELY, said Umbra.

“Okay,” said the witch. “I think I can live with that.”

YOU ARE ALIVE NO LONGER, LADY WITCH, said Umbra. YOU ARE NOTHING. YOU ARE A SHELL. YOU MUST REMIND YOURSELF OF THAT CONSTANTLY WHILE IN MY SERVICE.

“But you’ll bring him back,” said the witch. “You’ll bring him back, and Angelus—wait. _Can_ you bring back Angelus?”

I AM A CREATURE OF THE NIGHT, said Umbra. BRINGING BACK A CREATURE OF THE NIGHT IS ENTIRELY SIMPLE.

“And—my knight. His soul is tied to a demon—”

MY POWER IS MUCH GREATER THAN THAT OF THE SLEEPWALKER, said Umbra. I CAN EASILY FORCE ITS HAND AND CONVINCE IT TO PERMANENTLY RELINQUISH ITS CLAIMS TO THE SOUL OF YOUR KNIGHT.

“Okay,” said the witch again, letting out a sobbing laugh. She meant for it to sound relieved, but it sounded—broken. Shattered. She didn’t know why. Everything was fixed. Everything—everyone—would be happy in the way they deserved. “Okay. And for the year, when I hide myself away…how does that work?”

YOU MUST BE SOMEONE WHO THEY WOULD NEVER TURN TO, said Umbra. SOMEONE WHO THEY WOULD NEVER SEEK OUT.

And a memory came back to the witch, then, painful and sweet, cutting through the haze of shadows in a way that _hurt—_

* * *

 _“Oh, c’mon!” Jenny laughed, rolling over to snuggle into Rupert’s side. The blankets were hopelessly tangled, she thought happily. Rupert would have such a hard time making the bed when she got up. “You’re not seriously trying to tell me that all that_ evil witch _stuff_ isn’t _misogynistic as fuck?”_

 _“That’s not—do you_ ever _listen?” said Rupert with warm affection, tugging her face towards his and into a tender kiss. Jenny hummed, draping her arms around his neck and kissing him back. I love you, her heart sang. I love you, I love you, I love you. “I’m simply saying that regardless of the inherent—ah—misogyny in older fairy tales, there’s still something rather fascinating and beautiful about the history within them. One can learn so much about the world through those old stories—both the good parts and the bad. I’ve always loved them.”_

* * *

“I can stay a witch,” said the witch. “I can live in one of those huge, terrifying castles. Too big for just one person. All spooky and miserable. That’ll work for you, right?”

IT MIGHT, said Umbra.

“Then I think we’ve got ourselves a deal,” said the witch, and closed her eyes, giving herself fully over to the darkness.

* * *

_But the disciple’s attempt to bring back the knight was flawed: only true love’s kiss could call back the dead. With evil running through her veins, there was no way she could restore the knight to full strength—as she would die in the process._

_Foolhardy and reckless, the disciple pressed an impetuous kiss to the knight’s lips, and the darkness within her was burned alive by the goodness of the man she had attempted to pervert. As the disciple fell to her knees, the knight awoke, just as good and kind as he had always been._

_Darkness will never triumph over light._

_THE END_


	17. interlude II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy tuesday! almost forgot i promised y'all this one.

**Interlude II: Summer Child**

* * *

**_The Girl Who Brought Back the Sun_ **

_Once upon a time, there was a beautiful young maiden with sunshine in her heart. The life and light she held inside her was enough to eradicate any trace of darkness—and though she herself did not recognize it, she had the capacity to bring light back into the world._

_For the little town that the maiden lived in was shrouded in a miserable darkness, one so pervasive and powerful that those inside it had forgotten what the sun even looked like. People had adjusted with ease to the moonlight, the misery, and the strange, terrible monsters that preyed on those who strayed too far from the village. They built warm, happy homes, they stayed in after dark, and they didn’t think anything of the oddities that plagued their sleepy lives._

_But the maiden was different. A child of summer, she remembered what it had been like when the sun shone brightly in the sky, and she was not satisfied with a world of darkness and deception. So she left her sleepy town behind and set off on a quest to find the sun again._

_As she ventured forth into the darkness, the sounds around her fell away: birds ceased their chirping, the wind no longer whistled through the trees, and the twigs and leaves that crunched under her feet made no sound whatsoever. And still the maiden persevered, for the sunshine in her heart pushed her forward: she knew what would have to be done for the good of the world around her. She knew that within the forest, up the mountain, and in a terrible old castle lived a witch strange and horrible—one who had shrouded the town in darkness out of pain, rage, and hatred._

_The maiden fought her way through the forest, even as the brambles tore at her face and arms. She climbed her way up the mountain, even as the cold air bit at her nose and hands. And finally, after a long, arduous journey, she collapsed in the front room of the castle, falling into a fitful slumber._

_She was awoken, then, by the angry witch. “Who are you to impede upon my solitude?” said the witch._

_The maiden was too brave and too stubborn to be afraid. Raising her head to look the witch in the eye, she said, “I am looking for the sun, lady witch. Have you seen it?”_

_“I have not seen the sun in ten years,” said the witch. “Leave now, little girl. You have better places to be.” And with a flourish of her black-as-night cloak, she swept out of the front room, not bothering to look behind her._

_But the maiden had not fought her way through a forest and up a mountain to be dissuaded so easily. Once she was certain that the witch was gone, she snuck her way up to a room in a high, tall tower, hiding herself away to rest from her arduous journey. She slept for three days and three nights, and woke up refreshed, for the strength and sunlight she carried with her had brought her the good health she needed._

_When she came down from her tower room, the witch was waiting for her. “Who are you to sleep in my bed?” said the witch._

_Looking the witch in the eye, the maiden simply said, “I am looking for the sun, lady witch. Have you seen it?”_

_“I have not seen the sun in twenty years,” said the witch. “Leave now, little girl. You have better places to be.” And with a flourish of her black-as-night cloak, she swept down the stairs, not bothering to look behind her._

_The maiden scoffed. For a terrifying witch, this woman certainly didn’t do all that many terrifying things. Falling into step with the witch, she persisted, “Your story doesn’t seem to add up. First you say ten, then you say twenty—next, I suppose, you’ll say you haven’t seen the sun in fifty years?”_

_“What if I said seventy?” said the witch a bit snidely._

_“I haven’t seen the sun either,” said the maiden. “I have gone my entire life without seeing the sun, lady witch. Would you be so unkind as to turn me away and let me live the rest of my life in a miserable darkness?”_

_And something in the witch’s heart flared up, soft and warm and strange—something that wasn’t supposed to be there. Though the witch had indeed hidden the sun away, she held a secret unknown to even the maiden: she had saved a little part of it for herself, wanting to feel some semblance of warmth in her cold, dark world. The sunlight in the witch had dimmed and faded after years in the darkness, but that didn’t mean that there wasn’t still a last spark left—and it was that spark that softened the witch’s heart towards the odd little maiden. Tentatively, she said, “I would…not be_ so _unkind.”_

_“Then you will show me the sun?” said the maiden hopefully._

_“I will not turn you away,” said the witch, “but I cannot promise that I will show you the sun. There is no light left here, little girl. If you are looking for the sun, you might wish to look somewhere else.”_

_But the maiden was cleverer than the witch realized. She knew that the witch had hidden the sun away somewhere, and she had no intention of leaving without finding it. “Very well,” she said politely. “Then I shall stay here and gather my strength for the next leg of my journey.”_

_For six weeks, the maiden lived in the witch’s castle. The witch shared her home, her food, and her stories with the odd little maiden, and as time went by, she found that the sunlight in her heart grew brighter and greater around her. Though the witch was still a creature of darkness first and foremost, that hidden-away piece of the sun burned brightly—as it had found its counterpart in a most unlikely place—and it softened the witch, day by day, into something closer and closer to human._

_And as those six weeks stretched on, the maiden found herself softening to the witch as well. The piece of broken, stolen sunlight within the witch was the closest thing the maiden had ever had to the sun’s warmth, and she couldn’t help but wish to free the strange, prickly, oddly-gentle witch from the ~~knight’s~~ night’s constraints. Every day, she scoured the castle for answers that might save the witch and bring back the sun, but every day it became clearer: there was no way to save one without destroying the other. She would have to make a choice, and soon._

_At the end of the six weeks, the maiden left the witch’s castle, no longer in search of the sun: she was now in search of a way to save the witch from the endless darkness. But every book she read, every prophecy she found, every person she talked to—they all told her the same thing. The witch had made choices that could not be changed, and the best thing for the world would be the return of the sun._

_Distraught, the maiden headed back towards the forest, hoping to find her way to the witch and perhaps say one last goodbye. But on her way to begin her journey, she noticed something strange: near the entrance to the forest, set into the cliff face by the trees, the entrance to a tiny cave revealed a suit of golden armor and a sword stuck firmly into a stone._

_The maiden knew, then, that there was no time to waste. There was only one way to truly save the witch: by ending the darkness wrapped so tightly around her, finally freeing her from her confines. As kind and gentle as she had seemed, the sunlight within the witch was still stolen, and needed to be returned._

_The maiden donned the golden armor, effortlessly pulling the Sword of Sunlight out of the stone. She fought her way through the forest, and when the shadows rose up to greet her, she cut them down with the sunlight wielded by her sword. She fought her way up the mountains, and when the rocks rose up to claim her, she smashed them to rubble with the flat of her blade. She forced her way into the eerie, terrible castle, and up the spiral staircase, and into the high, tall tower, and found herself facing the witch._

_The witch gave her a simple, tired smile. “There is no light left here, little girl,” she said. “Do what you will.”_

_The maiden raised the Sword of Sunlight high and proud. Then, with a flash of gold, she sunk it into the darkness, ending the endless night._

_THE END_


	18. when the night falls down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here's where the last part of our story starts!! i'm sure you've been wondering how faith's doing, right? and i'm also sure you've been craving some ridiculous high school sapphics? part three's the one for all that.

* * *

**Part Three: The Sun and the Stars**

* * *

Almost six weeks after Faith’s mysterious disappearance, Buffy didn’t like admitting how much she missed her. Mostly, she didn’t like admitting to it because everyone would act like they understood—all sympathetic smiles and gentle shoulder pats and _oh, poor Buffy, back to being the only Chosen One._ And—sure, yeah, that was _part_ of it, but that wasn’t _all_ of it. There was an underlying current of the same kind of pain she’d felt upon losing Angel, and Buffy _hated_ that she didn’t feel ready to express or explain that to anyone. She was with Angel. Any feelings she might have had for Faith were unimportant, because Faith was gone, and even if Faith _was_ here—

Buffy let out a sad, frustrated breath.

 _“Are_ you all right?” said Giles for like the ninetieth time. He seemed convinced that he’d be blamed for this one. The Cruciamentum had been such a long time ago, but things between them still felt rocky and tenuous—especially concerning missing memories.

“I’m fine,” said Buffy again. She didn’t know how many times she could say it before he’d believe her. “Look, we already established that whoever broke in and knocked us out didn’t actually _take_ anything. And what they _did_ seem to want…” She trailed off, picking up the crumpled—and entirely unreadable—piece of paper that they had found on the floor near them. “Kind of completely useless.”

“Still,” said Giles. “I feel that alerting the others to a potential threat might be a good idea.”

“Oh, one hundred percent,” said Buffy, setting the paper back down. _“Tomorrow._ Waiting a day isn’t gonna kill anyone.”

As if on cue, the library doors burst open, and a bloodied, battered Faith staggered inside, a ring of purpling bruises around her neck. Upon seeing Buffy and Giles, she stared at them both for a long moment, then burst into tears, falling to the floor and burying her face in her hands.

“…Faith?” Buffy whispered. This wasn’t the Faith Lehane she remembered.

Sobbing uncontrollably, Faith seemed to be trying to say something, but only a few words seemed to make it through. “—didn’t know— _so_ sorry— _Jenny!”_

“Faith, hold on, what’s going on?” Heart pounding, Buffy stepped forward, kneeling down next to Faith. It would have been one thing if Faith had sauntered in all business-as-usual, but this Faith looked small and miserable and like someone who really _did_ feel bad about killing a guy. She reached out, gently gripping Faith’s shoulders. “Hey. What happened?”

 _“Jenny,”_ Faith sobbed. “She’s gonna _die!”_

“…okay,” said Buffy. “Well, uh, we can—”

“And I don’t know why she’s alive ‘cause that article in Giles’s office said she was dead and _everyone_ says she’s dead but she’s _not,_ she’s _alive,”_ Faith was still crying, but her words were becoming more clear as she continued, “and I don’t know _anything_ about why she’s alive, but I gotta figure it out ‘cause in twenty-four hours she’s gonna be _dead_ for _real_ and I don’t know how to help her and I—”

“Wait, _what?”_ said Buffy, her stomach turning over. “When you say _Jenny,_ do you—are you talking about Jenny _Calendar?”_

Faith started crying even harder.

Completely at a loss for words, Buffy looked up at Giles. His face had that stony, unreadable expression that it always got whenever someone brought up Ms. Calendar, which probably meant he wasn’t going to be a whole bunch of help. With a small sigh, she turned back to Faith. “Okay,” she said again. “Can you explain…maybe a little bit more?”

“There’s no _time!”_ Faith wailed. “You have to— _please,_ you have to help her, I d-don’t know how to help her and you and Giles, you’re smarter than me, you’re the good guys, you’re—”

“Giles, can you call Willow and Xander?” said Buffy, not taking her eyes off of Faith. “And probably Angel too, I think we’ll need all the help we can—”

“I will not,” said Giles.

Buffy looked up, stunned. “Giles, what—?”

“Buffy, Faith killed a man and disappeared for _six weeks,”_ said Giles. “Before I call _anyone,_ I should like to understand why she was rifling through _my office_ for information regarding Jenny Calendar.” His tone was stiff and unwavering, but Buffy knew him well enough to know what that meant: he was keeping some pretty huge emotions under control. “Particularly considering that she appears to be under the misapprehension—”

“Peanut butter cups,” said Faith.

The expression on Giles’s face flickered. “I-I’m sorry?”

Faith took a small, shuddering breath, wiping her eyes roughly on her sleeve before looking up at Giles again. “Jenny loves peanut butter cups,” she said. “She’s got this big bag in her tower and she made it a bottomless supply of peanut butter cups ‘cause she never wants to have to worry about needing more. She doesn’t talk much about herself but she talks about—about this guy she loved a whole lot. Someone she would’ve done anything for. She says it’s her fault he got hurt and she needs to make things up to him.”

Giles had gone very pale.

“And she’s gonna get herself killed trying to do it,” said Faith. “And I don’t know how the _fuck_ I’m supposed to—to prove it to you, man, that I’m someone worth listening to, but listen, I’m not asking for anything more than twenty-four hours. After that—fuck, I don’t know. I just—” She looked up at Giles with helpless, pleading eyes. “G, if you loved Jenny for even a _second,_ you’ll know why I’m so fucked up about this,” she said unsteadily. “She’s cagey as shit, and I think something in her past _really_ fucked with her head—but she tried her hardest to be good to me. I need to help her.”

“Faith—” Buffy began.

But Giles held up a hand. His eyes were fixed, unblinking, on Faith. “Tell us what you know,” he said.

Faith sniffled. Softly, she said, “Uh, this—this is gonna sound bananas.”

“Frankly, nothing sounds more unbelievable than you being convinced that Jenny Calendar is, for some reason, entirely alive,” said Giles coolly. “Particularly considering the fact that I found her body in my apartment.”

“Yeah, man, I-I can’t explain that one,” said Faith. “But—you know the witch, right? The one who’s all evil and weird and holds a few city blocks as part of her territory?”

“Ye-eah,” said Buffy slowly. “Everyone knows the witch.”

“Well—” Faith hesitated. “A-after I killed that guy, I thought—I thought I wasn’t good enough to hang with you guys anymore. Figured you probably wouldn’t want a murderer around, and—I didn’t really wanna be around anyone after what I’d done. So I found my way to the witch instead.”

 _“What?”_ said Buffy and Giles at the same time, and then proceeded to start talking over each other—Buffy doing her best to talk louder than Giles because it was _important that Faith heard her first._ “So all this time, you’ve just been—”

“Do you have any idea how _foolhardy,_ how _reckless—”_

“—I thought you were _dead!_ I thought you’d gone off and gotten yourself _killed!”_

“What would have happened had she decided to kill you? What would have happened had she taken your trespass as a breach of our contract?”

“I was so _worried_ about you, and you did something _that stupid?”_

 _“GUYS!”_ shouted Faith, eyes flashing. “You can yell at me _all you want,_ but _not now!_ Jenny’s gonna be as good as _dead_ in less than twenty-four hours!” At the mention of Ms. Calendar, Giles flinched back like he’d been hit, then directed his murderous stare at his shoes instead.

Buffy had no such qualms. “How does Ms. Calendar tie into this?”

Faith exhaled. Quietly, she said, “I-I think she’s the witch.”

There was a very long silence.

“Okay, that’s a lie,” said Faith. “I _know_ she’s the witch.”

“You cannot _possibly_ be serious,” said Giles through gritted teeth, eyes flashing.

“Giles—” Buffy cut in.

“No!” said Giles sharply. “No, Buffy, this is utterly absurd! We know for a _fact_ that someone ransacked my office for information and _clearly_ did it poorly enough that they had to knock us out, we know for _certain_ that Faith is an impulsive, murderous, reckless Slayer who can’t be trusted, and we’re expected to take her little fairy tale at face value?”

“Giles, _please,”_ Faith begged. She looked like she was about to start crying again, and to Buffy, that was evidence enough. Faith wasn’t the kind of person who could pull off crocodile tears—whatever this was, even if it wasn’t Ms. Calendar back from the dead, it was big and scary enough to mess Faith up _really_ badly. “Please. You’re all she has left.”

“I am _not,”_ said Giles, his voice shaking with rage, “all that Jenny Calendar has left. Jenny Calendar is _dead._ How dare you use her name to try and manipulate me into helping you. What do you want, hmm? Power? Glory? To lead the Slayer into some sort of death trap? You were with the witch for six weeks, I’ll give you that, but I find it much more likely that you’re working some sort of trick in order to extend her influence over the Hellmouth— _much_ more likely than the witch being _Jenny Calendar.”_ He spat Ms. Calendar’s name at Faith, tears in his eyes. “How _dare_ you. Get out of my sight.”

Faith stood there for a long moment, her face trembling. Then, slowly, her expression changed from one of misery into one of quiet contemplation. “The Sun and the Stars,” she mumbled to herself. “That one must’ve been—okay.” She looked back into Giles’s eyes. “All right, G,” she said. “I’ll agree that my little fairy tale isn’t exactly gonna convince anyone any time soon. Why don’t I try another one?”

“I’m not interested in your mind games, Faith—”

“Once upon a time,” said Faith quietly, “there was a Watcher who thought he was a monster, and a lady who thought she’d be alone for the rest of her life. The Watcher crossed an ocean to find her, and when he did, he found someone he loved a hell of a lot more than he ever thought he would.”

“This isn’t _news,”_ Giles spat. “This is a _fiction.”_

“The lady loved the Watcher more than anything,” said Faith, continuing to hold Giles’s gaze. “Enough that she’d do dangerous things to keep him safe. Things that might end up hurting her. Killing her.”

It was a minute twitch, but Buffy saw it: Giles had faltered, if only for a moment. “None of this proves—”

“I wasn’t lying about the peanut butter cups, Giles,” said Faith, and she almost smiled. “Or anything else. Jenny’s…” She trailed off. “She makes a little face when she’s pretending she doesn’t think you’re funny,” she said. “Kinda like she sucked on a lemon and she’s pissed about it. And when she laughs, she always snorts a little, and sometimes _after_ she laughs she gets annoyed about it, ‘cause she hates admitting that she’s anything but cool and composed.”

Giles’s expression was beginning to change—and for that matter, even _Buffy_ was a little unnerved.

“And, uh, she loves books,” said Faith. “A lot. She said something weird about…” She trailed off, frowning. “About knowledge needing to smell,” she said. “And how books smell good or something. Some weird shit like that. I don’t remember—”

Giles went _white._ He took a reflexive step back, knocking into the table, but didn’t even seem to notice it. Unsteadily, he said, “What—exactly—did she say about books?”

“Man, I don’t _know,_ it was—” Faith blinked, fully registering the change in Giles’s demeanor—and the fact that her words had finally had an impact. Hastily, she stammered, “Uh—I— _shit,”_ and screwed up her face, thinking. “Fuck, fuck, she—she said she likes it when her books are appreciated, she said she thinks knowledge should be shared, she said knowledge had to have—not taste— _texture,_ that was the word, and then I asked her what _texture_ meant and she said it was when something felt _good,_ and I made some shitty sex joke and she pretended not to laugh but I could tell she thought it was funny ‘cause her eyes sparkled—”

“Faith,” said Giles.

Faith looked up at him. “Yeah?”

“I ask you to promise—promise me one thing,” said Giles. His voice was shaking. “Before I offer you my help.”

“Yeah,” said Faith. _“Yeah._ Sure, man, anything—”

“Promise me that you are not lying when you say this is Jenny Calendar we are rescuing,” said Giles. “Promise me that with certainty. Because if this is false hope—if you are misleading us in a deliberate attempt to harm us or to gain my unwavering assistance—I will not be merciful.”

Faith swallowed, hard. Then she said, “Do you have a picture of your Jenny?”

Giles seemed strangely satisfied with that. In answer, he tugged out his wallet (Buffy felt a painful tug of the usual guilty feeling tied to Ms. Calendar; she had had _no_ idea that Giles still carried a _photo_ of her around, even a year later), then pulled out a neatly folded photo, awkwardly unfolding it before handing it to Faith.

The expression on Faith’s face gave them their answer before she even opened her mouth. Her eyes went wide, then filled with tears, and she clutched the photo to her chest as if entirely unwilling to give it up. Slowly, she looked up at Giles. “She looks so _happy,”_ she said, her voice shaking. “She _never_ smiles like that now.”

Giles moved to take the photo back. Faith didn’t give it up. “Faith—” he said.

“I can’t lose her,” said Faith. Her voice broke in the middle. “Giles, we have to save her. We have to.”

And to Buffy’s complete surprise, Giles’s face softened in a way it _never_ had around Faith. He reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder, and said with quiet certainty, “I will do everything in my power to make sure Jenny Calendar is returned to you, Faith. All right?”

Unsteadily, Faith nodded.

“Chin up,” said Giles gently, and held out his hand for the photo. This time, Faith handed it over to him without hesitation, pressing it carefully into his palm. “Now. I’ll go call Xander and Willow. Faith, I think we’ll need a bit more of an explanation when they arrive, because you haven’t given us quite a lot to go on. Buffy—?”

“I’ll stay with Faith,” said Buffy, her stomach still churning with that strange new guilt. _You’re with Angel,_ she reminded herself. _You’re with Angel. That doesn’t change now that she’s back, and besides, she’s not like that. She’s not like you. And even if she was, she doesn’t know_ you’re—

Giles moved past Buffy and towards the phone. As he began to dial Willow’s number, Faith turned to Buffy, that exhausted sadness hanging over her and making her look so starkly different from the girl Buffy remembered. And the terrifying thing—the thing that really messed Buffy up—was that her feelings for Faith didn’t change when Faith wasn’t looking sexy and snarky and scary. It had never been the badass-Slayer thing that had drawn Buffy to Faith—it had just been _Faith._ Whoever Faith was—sad, happy, angry—Buffy felt those warm, glittery first-love feelings just like she did with Angel.

This might be a problem, Buffy thought. Lucky that she had twenty-four hours before she had to really think about what this meant for her love life. Unsteadily, she said, “I-I know this isn’t the right time to say this, Faith, but…” She trailed off. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” she said. “It’s really good to see you. Whatever it is that’s going on right now—I hope it works out in your favor.”

Faith gave her a small, unsteady, somehow-just-as-beautiful-as-always smile. “It’s good to see you too, B,” she said. “Even though this entire situation is _total_ bullshit.”

“Yeah.” Buffy hesitated, then stuck out her hand. Faith shook it. Buffy had to resist the urge to do something stupid, like cling to Faith’s hand, or just cut out the middleman and cling to _Faith._ God, she’d been so _scared,_ these last six weeks—and seeing Faith alive and well had finally made that heavy, terrible fear dissipate.

(Now she was just freaked out about…well. The whole Ms. Calendar thing. But that was still a step up from not knowing whether Faith was alive or dead, in Buffy’s opinion.)

“So we doing this?” said Faith, and managed a tired half-smile. “You and me, savin’ someone who needs some Slayer action?”

“You and me,” Buffy agreed, and tried her best not to think about how nice that sounded.

* * *

“Okay, _hold_ on,” said Xander. “What you’re saying sounds _bananas.”_

“Yeah, man, I know,” said Faith. “I said the same thing.”

“So—Ms. Calendar’s the witch?” said Willow, sounding more curious than alarmed. “Except the witch isn’t even really a witch? And the witch is controlled by her cloak, and her cloak…ate her?”

“It didn’t _eat_ her, it took her _soul,_ ‘cause I said her _name_ and she _listened,”_ said Faith. “Umbra’s deal with Jenny meant that Jenny had to _give up her name_ or some shit, but when I said it…” She almost smiled. “It meant something to her,” she said. Her smile faded. “Which is pretty fucked, ‘cause now Umbra has her soul a day earlier than it should. But it said that its contract with her runs out tomorrow, which means that technically we’re kinda working within a gray area here—it’s not _supposed_ to have her right now, and if we can break its hold on her _now,_ maybe we can get it to let go of her for _good.”_

“But that still doesn’t make sense,” Xander persisted. “You said the witch is trying to bring back her knight, right? Some guy who died? And you seem pretty sure it’s Giles.”

“Our own _very alive_ Giles,” Willow chimed in.

“Look, I _don’t_ have all the answers,” said Faith with exasperation. “All of you knew Jenny, right? She strike you guys as the kind of person to share a whole lot?”

That was actually a pretty good point.

“Yeah,” said Faith. “So I’m not gonna be able to _tell_ you a whole lot. I _know_ what I’m asking you guys for, and I _promise_ I won’t ask for anything past twenty-four hours. I just—” Her voice broke. “You all know Jenny,” she said. “You all gotta know how fuckin’ amazing that lady is.”

Xander and Willow exchanged a look, and Buffy felt that horrible guilt weighing her down again. She _didn’t_ know what would inspire this kind of tearful loyalty from Faith, and that made her think that she might have never actually known Ms. Calendar all that well. She didn’t want to admit to this right now, though, so she said instead, “We’re here to help, Faith. What do we need to do?”

“Well—” Faith let out a soft, relieved breath. “I need that third prophecy.”

“What?”

Faith chewed on her lip, looking a little embarrassed. “Remember that part of the story where I broke in here looking for shit?” she said. “And then Jenny showed up and dragged me out? I was here looking for…” She trailed off. “Fairy tales,” she said. “Everything I’ve found out about Jenny, I’ve found it out through those. I found three, but I only had time to read two before you guys showed up. I think I dropped the third one.”

Suddenly, Buffy knew what Faith was looking for. “This?” she asked, sliding the crumpled piece of paper across the table to Faith.

“Wh— _yeah,_ that’s it!” said Faith with great relief, snatching up the paper and beginning to scan it. “Oh—o _kay,_ looks like this thing starts in the middle—”

“A moment, please,” said Giles suddenly, his eyes alight with academic interest. “Faith, I am well aware that time is of the essence, but would you perhaps consider transcribing the prophecy so that we all have a copy to read ourselves? If you think this may hold some sort of useful information, it might do us well to analyze it as a group.”

Faith raised her eyes from the paper. “No offense, Giles, but I _don’t_ think we have time for that,” she said frankly. “I _can_ read it, though, if that’s an okay compromise.”

Giles hesitated, then nodded.

Clearing her throat, Faith began.

* * *

_“At the end of the six weeks, the maiden left the witch’s castle, no longer in search of the sun: she was now in search of a way to save the witch from the endless darkness. But every book she read, every prophecy she found, every person she talked to—they all told her the same thing. The witch had made choices that could not be changed, and the best thing for the world would be the return of the sun._

_“Distraught, the maiden headed back towards the forest, hoping to find her way to the witch and perhaps say one last goodbye. But on her way to begin her journey, she noticed something strange: near the entrance to the forest, set into the cliff face by the trees, the entrance to a tiny cave revealed a suit of golden armor and a sword stuck firmly into a stone._

_“The maiden knew, then, that there was no time to waste. There was only one way to truly save the witch: by ending the darkness wrapped so tightly around her, finally freeing her from her confines. As kind and gentle as she had seemed, the sunlight within the witch was still stolen, and needed to be returned._

_“The maiden donned the golden armor, effortlessly pulling the Sword of Sunlight out of the stone. She fought her way through the forest, and when the shadows rose up to greet her, she cut them down with the sunlight wielded by her sword. She fought her way up the mountains, and when the rocks rose up to claim her, she smashed them to rubble with the flat of her blade. She forced her way into the eerie, terrible castle, and up the spiral staircase, and into the high, tall tower, and f-found herself—”_

* * *

Abruptly, Faith stopped, her eyes widening with horror as she continued to scan the paper. Then, slowly, she raised her head to look at the rest of them. “Okay, uh, that’s it,” she said, her voice shaking and small. “There’s—there’s nothing else.”

Giles frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Totally,” said Faith, and ripped the paper violently in half, then ripped it again. Her hands were visibly trembling as the pieces fluttered to fall on the table in front of her. “H-hundred percent, man. Looks like—looks like we gotta find that Sword of Sunlight, right? If that’s what the fairy tales are saying, that’s what we should probably be doing. They haven’t led me wrong so far.”

“Faith?” said Giles with surprising gentleness.

“It’s _fine,”_ said Faith. “Look, I read part of this fairy tale before. They were saying all this shit about a _child of summer with sunshine in her heart,_ and that—” She looked directly up at Buffy. “That’s gotta be you. It has to be.”

God, Buffy hated today. _“Me?”_ she squeaked. “But I don’t know _anything_ about all of this!”

“B, you’re the Chosen One,” said Faith, as though this should be obvious. _“And_ you’re a _child of summer._ Buffy _Summers.”_

“Yeah, I know my own last name, thanks,” said Buffy, trying to make it sound flippant instead of freaked.

“The prophecies are _always_ about you,” Faith persisted, all but pleading. “You’re that badass senior Slayer who knows the ropes. You’ve _gotta_ know how to take down Umbra and save Jenny.”

Buffy swallowed. Normally, she’d put up more resistance than this, but the look in Faith’s eyes… “Well,” she said finally, “I _guess_ I can go looking for that sword.”

 _“Thank_ you,” said Faith, almost a sob.

“But only on one condition,” said Buffy firmly.

Faith looked somewhat apprehensive. “O…kay?”

“You come with me,” said Buffy.

_“What?”_

“I don’t even really know what I’m looking for!” said Buffy. “I mean, sure, it’s a sword—”

“In a cave, in a stone, can’t miss it,” said Faith, impatient and shaky. “B, I can’t come with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” Faith sniffled, drawing her sleeve across her face again. When she removed it, tears were streaming down her face, silent and quick in a way that suggested she wasn’t entirely aware she was still crying. “Because I’m a fuckup, okay? Because Jenny didn’t trust me to be a part of what she was trying to do, and because Jenny _doesn’t_ trust me anymore after what I did, and because if I try and help you with this, I might end up putting Jenny in more danger than she already _is._ I trust you _way_ more than I trust me right now, B, and I _know_ everyone else in this room feels the same way, so—please. Just—”

Buffy stepped forward, compassion giving her courage, and took Faith’s hands in hers. Faith stared down at their entwined fingers, then looked back up at Buffy with wide brown eyes. “I don’t know what to do,” said Buffy simply. “I don’t know where to go. Maybe some part of this _was_ your fault, but that doesn’t mean you can’t help me _now,_ okay? You found your way to Jenny before, and I get the sense that you’ll be able to find us a way to this Sword of Sunlight, wherever it is. You’re the only one who can read the prophecies, you’re the only person who’s _seen_ under the witch’s cloak—if anyone’s gonna know where some weird magical cave is, it’ll have to be you.”

“But you’re—”

“What?” said Buffy, giving Faith a small, tired smile. “The Chosen One? I don’t think I’m the only one chosen here, Faith.”

“The Powers fucked up,” said Faith stubbornly. “I’m a shitty Slayer and you know it. You _all_ know it.”

Buffy swallowed. “Faith, we don’t have time for this,” she said. “You asked me to trust you for twenty-four hours, right? Well—I think you need to trust us too.”

The silence in the room was long and charged, but Buffy didn’t take her eyes off of Faith. Looking down at their joined hands yet again, Faith swallowed, steeling herself. A tear fell onto the back of Buffy’s hand as Faith raised her head again. “Okay,” she said softly.

“Okay?” Buffy echoed, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief.

“Okay,” said Faith, and gave her a small, shaky smile. “Sure. Twenty-four hours. But after that, I go _right_ back to being useless.”

“I don’t think it’s gonna be as easy as _that,”_ said Buffy, and smiled gently back.


	19. when i feel alone

“Fairy tales,” said Faith, “are _bullshit.”_

It wasn’t exactly the most fun car ride in the world. Faith had been staring out the window for most of it, pensive and tearful in a way Buffy had trouble reconciling with the brash, careless, flirtatious girl who had swept into Sunnydale like a hurricane. Giles had been staring straight ahead at the road, expression still unreadable in a way that meant he was _definitely_ thinking about Ms. Calendar. Unsure where she fit in this equation, Buffy had busied herself with thinking about other things—like the fact that she’d definitely be missing school tomorrow, and the fact that she’d have to ask Giles to call her mom and explain the situation, and the fact that her mom would probably be _majorly_ pissed about her missing school, even for world-saving.

Carefully, and because she didn’t feel like letting that sentence hang in the air, Buffy said, “What’s up, Faith?”

“What the fuck is even up with shit like _true love’s kiss,_ anyway?” said Faith. “Why would anyone think that that would fix _anything?”_

“Well—in fairy tales, true love’s kiss is a bit simpler than in real life,” said Giles unexpectedly, his voice surprisingly calm and measured for a guy who was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. “Sleeping Beauty and Snow White would have you believe that it’s only a handsome lover who can wake a sleeping damsel, but that’s rarely the case when—”

“—yeah, yeah, anyone can love anyone, girls can kiss girls, it’s 1999, _whatever,”_ said Faith acidly.

Giles quirked a small, amused smile. “Though you’re certainly right about that, that wasn’t what I meant,” he said. “There are a lot of different ways that two people can love each other, and there are a lot of different ways that they can communicate that. When it comes to real life magical enchantments, _true love’s kiss is—_ it’s sort of like shorthand.”

“Shorthand?” Faith repeated, looking genuinely bemused.

After a moment of consideration, Giles said, “Buffy, can you think of something you and your mother might do to express your love for each other? Something the two of you share?”

Buffy chewed on her lip, thinking about the question. “We-ell,” she said, “last week I made her soup when she was feeling sick. That was the night I stayed back from patrol, remember? I wanted to make sure she was okay.”

“True love’s kiss can be as simple as that,” said Giles.

A strange expression crossed Faith’s face. “As simple as—as soup when you’re sick?” she repeated, her voice shaking. “A-and taking care of you when you’re hurt?”

“Love comes in many forms,” Giles explained with a small, wistful smile. “Though fairy tales would have us believe that romantic love is the strongest, most important love there is, magic isn’t quite as ready to place familial and platonic love beneath it. What matters is not the context of the love, but the strength of the loyalty, trust, and compassion that makes it up. To a magic spell, any gesture can be true love’s kiss if it holds the appropriate level of meaning behind it.”

“Oh,” said Faith softly. For the first time since her return, she was almost smiling. “Huh. Well—I still think fairy tales are bullshit.”

“They really are,” said Giles, and gave Faith a little grin. “Truly terrible. But true love’s kiss…though its societal context is just as ridiculous, I’ve always found its magical meaning quite…meaningful.”

“Yeah,” said Faith. Her face had relaxed a little. “Me too.”

They drove in silence for a little while longer, but the tension in the car had dissipated just a little bit. Giles’s smile hadn’t entirely gone away, and the misery in Faith’s expression had lessened somewhat. It made Buffy feel a little more hopeful about the journey ahead, and so she turned her own attention to the window, watching the streetlights flash by. Little blips of light in the darkness.

After a while, though, that familiar inky blackness began to creep up on them, blurring streetlights and homes and pretty much everything else. Giles stopped the car, then, and the tension returned with a vengeance when he said, “Faith, is this it?”

“Y-yeah,” said Faith, and swallowed. She looked about as ready as Buffy felt. “Yeah. I think so.”

“I’ll get out of the car and get the weapons,” said Giles. “Buffy, Faith, do you two need a moment?”

“Actually, Giles, I…” Buffy played back his earlier words in her head—specifically, what he’d said when Faith had mentioned girls could kiss girls. _Though you’re certainly right about that…_ “There’s something I’d like to tell you.”

She was kind of expecting Faith to linger, an anticipatory grin on her face—which was why it took her a little by surprise when Faith gave them both a small, awkward smile, opened the door, and clambered out of the car, shutting the door behind her. “I can get started on those weapons,” she called, and when she looked back at Buffy, there was _understanding_ in her eyes. Like she knew that Buffy had needed a moment alone with Giles, but wasn’t taking it as an insult.

 _Oh_ boy. Faith, showing compassion and consideration? After the twenty-four hours were up, Buffy was gonna _really_ have to think about what this meant for her love life.

“Buffy—?”

“So when you said girls can kiss other girls,” said Buffy abruptly, keeping her eyes trained ahead on the road. She swallowed, hard, then said, “Is that—you believe that, right? You’re not just saying that to be all snarky and British-y?”

A moment of startled silence passed before Giles spoke—and when he did, his tone of voice was careful and tender. “No, I am not,” he said. “When I say that true love should not be limited by societal definitions of what one should aspire to have in their life, I mean that entirely. If one was to fall in love with another of their gender—if I, for instance, was to fall in love with a man—I would in no way think that to be wrong or unnatural.”

“And _would_ you fall in love with a man?” Buffy persisted.

This silence was more weighty. Finally, and with a strained reservation, Giles said, “Would you find that abhorrent, Buffy?”

“What?” Buffy’s brain did a record-scratch—and abruptly, she realized why Giles might have _such_ specific feelings on the topic. _“Wait._ Oh my gosh, Giles, you’ve got me _all_ wrong!” She let out a relieved, half-tearful laugh. “I’m bi,” she said. “I can do the whole true-love thing with guys _and_ girls, I’m—god, I think you’re the first person I’ve said that out loud to. A-and—you too, right? ‘Cause you were totally in love with Ms. Calendar, and if you—I mean—” Giles was looking at her with wide eyes. “Oh god.” Doubt set in. “Was I wrong?”

Without a word, Giles unbuckled his seatbelt, gathering Buffy into a fierce hug. She could feel him shaking a little bit as he raised a hand to stroke her hair. “You are _far_ beyond anything I was at your age,” he said, his voice rough and tearful. “I am so proud of you, Buffy. Never doubt that I am.”

Buffy pulled back, a lump in her throat. “So—”

Giles pulled back too, awkwardly moving to clean his glasses—necessary, she realized, because the lenses were smudged with a few tiny teardrops here and there. “When I was in my early twenties,” he said, “I attempted to—ah—come out to my father. I expressed it in much the same way you did, and he…” He swallowed. “He didn’t take to the idea.”

“Oh?”

“More accurately, he told me that it was _beneath him_ to be concerned by it,” said Giles. “Said it didn’t really matter, so long as it was a woman I married.” A wry smile twisted his face. “I then proceeded to inform him in _graphic_ detail of the nature of my relationship with—” He flushed. “Well. My point, Buffy, is that…” He trailed off, looking somewhat nervous. “I am also bisexual,” he said. “I had no intention of telling you, as I didn’t wish for it to impact the way you looked upon me as a mentor, and I hope you’ll forgive me for keeping this a secret—”

Buffy pulled him into another hug.

“Ow,” said Giles.

Buffy loosened her grip, doing her best to pretend she wasn’t totally about to start crying. This was the first time in _months_ that things between her and Giles felt a little bit more like—like they were _supposed_ to be. Warm, and happy, and _safe._ “Thank you, Giles,” she said in a small voice.

“Thank you, Buffy,” said Giles, and gave her a tiny, shy smile. “For trusting me.”

The words carried a whole lot of weight with them. Buffy could still deny him that—say that they _weren’t there yet,_ that he still had a lot more work to do—but it wouldn’t be true, because he’d gone out of his way to make it clear that confiding in him was the right call. This time around, he’d made _sure_ to show her that he wasn’t taking her trust for granted, and it was that realization that made Buffy smile right back at him.

“HEY, ARE YOU GUYS DONE?” Faith demanded from outside the car. “WE LITERALLY ONLY HAVE TONIGHT TO GET THIS SHIT FIXED!”

“WE’RE COMING!” Buffy shouted back, and let go of Giles, sharing a last smile with him before finally getting out of the car.

Faith was waiting right on the edge of a shadowy _something,_ practically vibrating with anticipation. “Listen, man, we really don’t need weapons,” she informed Giles as he got out of the car. “Like, we’re _looking_ for a sword, y’know? Don’t think we need any _extras.”_

“Let us take our time, Faith—”

 _“Time_ is not a thing we have a _lot of!”_ said Faith through gritted teeth.

“Faith,” said Buffy carefully, “I understand that you’re worried about—” god, this was weird, “—about Ms. Calendar. But we’re not gonna be of any help to her if we’re not properly prepared, okay? And there’s only _one_ sword. I think we need to at _least_ make sure you’ve got a weapon of your own.”

This seemed to placate Faith, enough so that she was willing to wait the extra five seconds for Giles to hand her a particularly hefty-looking sword. Buffy expected her to light up the way she always did around weaponry, but Faith’s face was shuttered and miserable as she looked down at it. After a long moment, she looked back up again, expression stony. “Okay,” she said. “I think I know the way. Through those shadows and then—” She swallowed. “Well, the fairy tale said that it was right outside the forest, so we can work from there.”

Giles was looking towards the shadows with a strange expression on his face. In an odd tone of voice, he said, “Faith, Buffy, I-I think—I rather think that I should accompany the two of you.”

Buffy blinked. “What?”

“I-if what Faith says is true—” Giles swallowed, then continued. “If what Faith says is true, and Jenny is being driven to these—extremes—because she believes me dead—it may do her well to see me in person. Prove to her that I am in fact among the living.”

“Man, that’s—that’s not the way the fairytale goes,” said Faith unevenly. “I don’t think you’re supposed to—”

But Buffy was already feeling a sweeping sense of relief. “We don’t have to live by prophecy, Faith,” she said gently. “I know fairy tales led you this far, but if anyone can talk down Ms. Calendar, it’s _totally_ the guy who she’s doing all of this for.” Notions of fairytale-esque true love were buoying her, filling her with warmth: Giles would fix this. Of _course_ Giles would fix this. It was like he’d been saying: true love could break any spell.

Giles was smiling too, just as tentatively hopeful as Buffy felt herself. “I-I suppose so,” he said shyly, and stepped forward, towards the shadows—and then stepped back, a strangely blank expression on his face. He shook himself, then tried again—but stepped back just as reflexively and robotically as before. “Terribly sorry,” he mumbled, “I-I don’t know what’s come over me—”

“The w—uh, _Jenny_ said she put up wards,” said Faith, frowning. “Maybe that’s what’s keepin’ you out?”

“Yeah, but that wouldn’t explain how _you_ got _in,”_ Buffy countered.

“I can try again—” Giles began, looking _extremely_ miserable.

“No, _I_ can try,” said Buffy reasonably, moving forward to stick a tentative hand into the shadows.

A tremor ran through her, a single disjointed memory coming back to her:

* * *

_—door was standing open. That was weird. “Giles?” Buffy called, and that was when her Slayer-senses started going haywire: shaky breathing upstairs. Blood on the wall. Signs of a struggle in the living room. But that wasn’t right, was it? Giles was fine, wasn’t he? “Giles, I have the book—” She stepped inside, shutting the door. No signs of Giles on this floor. Maybe he was in his bedroom. He was probably in his bedroom. He was probably fine. It—_

* * *

Horrified, Buffy jerked her hand back. As quickly as it had come to her, the memory vanished—but the bone-deep terror remained. “Okay, that’s _freaky,”_ she muttered.

“Freaky?” Giles echoed.

Buffy looked anxiously back at him. “Nothing’s stopping _me,”_ she said, “but I think—I think I remembered something _really_ important while I was touching the shadows.”

“Try again,” Giles suggested.

But Buffy’s Slayer-senses were going just as crazy as they had when—no, they’d never gone _this_ crazy, she was sure of it. This felt bigger than anything she’d ever experienced—or did it? Was it? She was beginning to feel the strangest sense of déjà vu: whatever truth the shadows were trying to tell her wasn’t something she wanted to know.

“Buffy, I can go first—”

“No,” said Buffy unsteadily, and stepped into the darkness.

* * *

_“Ms. Calendar, Giles is dead.”_

_“He’s not dead. He’s_ not _dead.”_

_“I’m so sorry. He—Angelus killed him. You have to remember that.”_

* * *

_“Yeah, she—she’s just as scared as the rest of us. She’s just putting on a front so she’ll be strong enough to bring him back, and then when he_ is _back, she’ll be able to freak out.”_

 _“I mean, I agree with you up to a point. And I_ hate _to be this person, but guys, what happens if she_ can’t _bring Giles back?”_

* * *

_“Ms. Calendar!”_

* * *

“Buffy,” Faith was saying, a thread of very real panic in her voice. _“Buffy—”_

* * *

_“Hey, Buffy,” said Ms. Calendar, giving Buffy a thin, sharp smile. Was it just Buffy’s imagination, or were her eyes a different color? “It’s been a while, huh?”_

* * *

_“BUFFY!”_ shouted Faith, and shook her, _hard,_ bringing Buffy out of the dizzy, nauseating haze that was an entire month’s worth of memories. Something had obscured them, Buffy realized—

No. Not something. Some _one._

* * *

_“A while?” said Buffy, a laugh in her voice. “It’s only been a week! I mean, we’ve been worried sick about you, obviously, but Angel called me from your friend Lilybeth’s and said he was with you and you were okay. Willow’s been covering for you with Snyder, so, uh, you do still have your job for when you come back—” When Ms. Calendar’s weird little smile didn’t change, Buffy found herself acutely aware of her own babbling. “Um,” she said, blushing. “Anyway. We’ve all…” The thought of Giles’s death sent its trademark twist of pain through her, but she liked to think she was getting a little better at managing it. “We’ve all been doing our best to deal. How are you?”_

_“Better now,” said Ms. Calendar. “Buffy, can you and I talk in private tonight? Say, around seven-thirty? I’m thinking at that coffee shop downtown—the Espresso Pump. There’s some stuff I need to discuss with you.”_

* * *

“Faith,” Buffy gasped out, grabbing Faith’s elbows.

“Yeah, that’s it,” said Faith shakily. “That’s me. What the fuck _happened_ to you?”

 _“Faith,”_ said Buffy. She was nearly in tears. “Faith, we can’t—we can’t help Ms. Calendar. We can’t. We can’t do it.”

“…what?” said Faith.

“She’s too far gone,” said Buffy. There was a terrible, acrid taste in her mouth. “No one’s gonna be able to save her after what she did.”

* * *

 _Buffy showed up at the Espresso Pump at around seven-fifteen in the evening. It was kind of the first time she’d willingly shown up early for_ anything, _but Ms. Calendar had left Sunnydale to save Giles. And if Ms. Calendar was back—back and wanting to talk in private with Buffy about something clearly_ hugely _important—then that probably meant that Ms. Calendar had found something worth talking about. And if that was the case, then Buffy didn’t want to waste_ any _time that could be used to bring Giles back. Every second without her Watcher was_ hard, _and_ hurt.

_Ms. Calendar, surprisingly, was already there, examining her nails with that blank, impassive expression. It occurred to Buffy—Slayer-senses first, then a conscious thought—that she hadn’t actually seen anything close to an emotion on Ms. Calendar’s face since her return. Her instincts said that that might be something bad, but…god, what could possibly be worse than Giles dying?_

* * *

“What she _did?”_ Faith repeated. “C’mon, B, you’re—you’re all I’ve got, we _have_ to save her—”

“Faith, we _can’t!”_ Buffy sobbed out. “We _can’t_ save someone who _chose_ to do what she did!”

Something ugly crossed Faith’s face. “You have gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” she said, slow and furious. “Are you choosing _now_ to start up another of your fuckin’ morality crusades? I don’t _care_ what she did, B. I don’t give a _shit._ Hold her accountable all you want when she’s back, but whatever she did—are you telling me that she deserves to _die_ for it?”

“Never,” said Buffy, her voice breaking. “I’d never say that. But this—” She swallowed, sniffling. “She said it herself,” she said. “There’s too much darkness in her for her to be saved. She _knows_ she can’t be saved, Faith. She knows what she’s doing, and she’s doing it—” Oh, god, she almost couldn’t say it. But she knew, now, why Giles couldn’t cross the threshold of the witch’s spell. “And she’s doing it to bring Giles back to life.”

* * *

_“Buffy,” said Ms. Calendar upon seeing her, almost smiling. “C’mon. Sit down. We need to talk about some stuff.”_

_“Um, sure,” said Buffy a little apprehensively. “Ms. Calendar, is everything okay?”_

_The cloak around Ms. Calendar’s shoulders rustled in the breeze, sending a chill down Buffy’s spine. Impatiently, Ms. Calendar straightened it, then held out her free hand across the table, wiggling her fingers. After a moment of hesitation, Buffy reached out—_

_In a flash, Ms. Calendar had turned Buffy’s hand over, slicing a deep cut through the palm with a silver dagger Buffy hadn’t noticed her holding. With a gasp, Buffy tried to pull away—but something on that dagger was beginning to make her vision blurry around the edges._

_“That’ll work fine,” said Ms. Calendar briskly._

_“Ms. Calendar?” said Buffy in a small voice. She didn’t feel like she was about to lose consciousness or anything—but she also didn’t exactly feel like usual. Her Slayer-senses weren’t telling her_ anything, _her vision didn’t seem as sharp as always, and the strength she always carried with her seemed all but gone._

 _“I just can’t afford to have you fight me on this one, Buffy,” said Ms. Calendar matter-of-factly. “I didn’t think you_ would— _you love Giles too, after all—but Umbra doesn’t think we should be taking any chances.”_

 _“Umbra?” Something was wrong. Buffy didn’t need her Slayer powers to know_ that _one._

 _Ms. Calendar’s cloak moved again, and Buffy realized with a jolt that there_ wasn’t _any breeze for it to rustle in. The way it moved was more fluid than normal fabric, too—viscous and strange. “A friend of mine,” said Ms. Calendar._

_I AM NO FRIEND OF YOURS, LADY WITCH, said the cloak._

_“Ms. Calendar,” said Buffy shakily. “Ms. Calendar, you p-promised you’d—you promised you’d save Giles. What are—what are you doing to me?” God, she was scared, she was so afraid, but there had to be a catch, there just had to be—_

_Ms. Calendar looked up, and for half a second, Buffy thought she saw some tiny measure of sympathy in the other woman’s eyes. “Buffy, I’m truly sorry,” she said quietly. “But this is what has to happen.”_

_“A-are you gonna kill me?” said Buffy, her voice breaking. “To bring back Giles?”_

_“God, no!” said Ms. Calendar, and the violet in her eyes flickered out for just a moment, bringing back their usual brown. “Never! I just—I need a tiny bit of your blood. You’re the anchor that’s gonna keep this town stable for the year I work to bring Giles back.”_

_“A year?” Buffy repeated._

_“I know,” said Ms. Calendar, almost apologetic. “I know. That’s too long to wait. I’m sorry. That’s why I’ve set up a-a contingency plan, okay? Just for the year before he’s back. You’re gonna help me with this spell, and for a year, everyone is going to think it’s me who’s dead instead of Giles.”_

“What?” _said Buffy, horrified._

_“No, no, it’s okay!” Ms. Calendar smiled, then, and it was the most terrifying thing Buffy had ever seen. Devoid of emotion, her eyes shone with weird, directionless intensity—as though something else was pulling the strings. “You all need Giles, Buffy, don’t you? This gives us the chance to have him back.”_

_“Ms. Calendar, we_ don’t _need Giles if it means losing_ you!” _Tears were coming to Buffy’s eyes, but the poison in the dagger held her still. “Please—”_

_“Buffy, I’m so sorry,” said Ms. Calendar, her tone gentle, her eyes empty. “It’s too late. There’s no turning back now.” She picked up Buffy’s hand, squeezing it over a small glass jar. “That enough for you, Umbra?”_

_MORE THAN ENOUGH, LADY WITCH, said Umbra._

_“Wh-what—” Buffy sniffled. “What’s gonna happen to you?”_

_“Well, for a year, I’ll be working for Umbra,” said Ms. Calendar._

_“I’ll find you,” said Buffy. “I pr-promise I’ll find you. I can help you, Ms. Calendar. Y-you don’t have to do this—”_

_“See, that’s the point of the spell,” said Ms. Calendar conversationally. “I’m going to turn myself into someone that no one is going to_ want _to find. You’ll know I’m here, Buffy, but you won’t know who I_ am, _and that’ll keep all of you safe until the time comes for Rupert to come back to life.”_

 _“What h-happens to you?” Buffy really was crying, now. First Giles, then Ms. Calendar—everyone was gone. Everyone was leaving her, by death or by choice, and she didn’t know what to do. No Watcher, no technopagan,_ no _adult to help her, to guide her, and god, she was only seventeen, she didn’t know how the hell she was supposed to do anything—_

_“It’s okay,” said Ms. Calendar quietly, and took out a bandage, wrapping it carefully around Buffy’s hand. Her own hands were gentle, lingering on Buffy’s with a strange compassion that seemed at odds with her empty eyes. “It’s okay, Buffy. It’s gonna be okay. Giles is gonna come back and I promise he’ll make it all better.”_

_“But wh-what happens—” Buffy was crying too hard to speak. “Please, I-I—please, Ms. C-Calendar, it i-isn’t too late_ please—”

_Leaning forward, Ms. Calendar pressed a soft kiss to Buffy’s forehead. “I promise I’ll bring him back,” she whispered. Around her shoulders, Umbra rose, darkness extending through the café as Ms. Calendar moved away. Buffy cried out, a wordless, sobbing noise, but the poison held her in place until—_

* * *

“Giles is dead,” said Buffy. She felt empty and wrung-out, sadder than she’d ever been. “That’s—that’s why he couldn’t make it through the spell. He _is_ the spell, Faith. She’s cast a spell on the entire town to make us all think he’s alive—but he’s _not._ Ms. Calendar’s the one who’s alive.”

“What?” said Faith unsteadily.

“She _chose_ this,” said Buffy, looking directly up at Faith. “She _chose_ to take this on. I don’t know how you’re supposed to convince her _not_ to do this, Faith—”

Faith swallowed hard, eyes glimmering with tears. Then she said, “In the—in the fairy tale. _The Girl Who Brought Back the Sun.”_

“Faith, not _now—_ ”

“No, B, listen,” said Faith, quiet and serious. There was something different in her expression—something less manic, less miserable—and it was enough to genuinely give Buffy pause. “In that fairy tale.” Faith swallowed, hard, and tried again. “In that fairy tale, the maiden kills the witch.”

“What?” God, and Buffy had thought she’d felt bad _before—_

“Sh-she—” Faith sniffled. “She raises the Sword of Sunlight a-and sinks it into the darkness.”

Buffy stared, horrified.

“So—” Faith swallowed. “So I know there’s more than one way to fix this,” she said. “But you said it yourself, right? We don’t have to live by prophecy. We _don’t._ I know Jenny doesn’t wanna be saved, but I _want_ her safe, and I’m willing to fight for her till I can’t fight anymore.” She looked directly at Buffy. “If you think she’s beyond saving,” she said, “then you wield that Sword of Sunlight and do what I can’t. I’m not gonna kill her, but—” She swallowed. “But I know you’re strong enough to do it.”

And it was always Buffy, in the end. Holding that sword. Sinking it into someone’s gut to save the world. Picking up the pieces to the best of her abilities. But looking at Faith’s lost, dark eyes—knowing what it would take from Faith to kill someone she loved—Buffy couldn’t willingly place that burden on anyone else’s shoulders. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Okay. If she’s beyond saving…it’ll be my job to make sure the rest of us are safe from her.”


	20. i reach for you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy friday!!! we're in the home stretch here, fellas.

“Angel was supposed to protect her, you know,” said Buffy.

Fighting through the trees was a little easier when there was already a part of the forest that had very clearly been damaged by Faith’s prior visit. The trees hadn’t healed up; if anything, the gap had widened, creating a relatively bramble-free path for Buffy and Faith to carefully navigate through. Faith was in front, which felt a little weird, but she was trying to keep her mind on Jenny and not on her weird Slayer complex. “What?” she said.

“Angel was supposed to protect her,” said Buffy quietly. “He promised he would. He called me from Lilybeth’s and said he was working really hard to make sure she didn’t get herself hurt, o-or hurt anyone else, and he…” She swallowed. It sounded a little teary. “He didn’t,” she said.

Faith didn’t know what to say to that.

“I-I…” Buffy seemed to be having trouble speaking. “I think he let her walk all over him. I remember what he was like at Christmas. The First would have gotten him without me there, a-and the Ms. Calendar I watched cast that spell…” She had to take another moment before continuing. “Faith, she was out of control.”

“I know,” said Faith quietly.

“And—” That seemed to give Buffy pause. “You do?”

“Yeah, she—” It hurt to admit it, but Faith knew that she had to. “She lost it when I told her she wasn’t a murderer. Tried to kill me to prove me wrong.”

Another silence. Then, wryly, “Will you kill _me_ if I say the same thing to you?”

That gave _Faith_ pause. She turned on the path to look at Buffy, a strange, tight feeling in her chest. “I think I might have,” she said. “A while ago…I think I might have done that. But it was…it was still an accident.” She sniffled. Embarrassed, she turned away again. “Look, I’m not at the place yet where I feel like I shouldn’t be blamed for it,” she said, “and I still feel fuckin’ terrible about it, but…” She trailed off. “It’s not gonna do shit to bring the guy back, y’know? Accidents happen. I’m not gonna slip up and let them happen again.”

Buffy let out a soft breath.

“What?” Faith turned to look at her again.

Buffy was smiling slightly, eyes shining. “If you’re this self-aware after six weeks, I think there might be some hope for Ms. Calendar,” she teased gently.

“Fuck off,” said Faith, giving her a lopsided smile back before turning away again.

They walked in a strangely comfortable silence for a little while after that—or as comfortable as it _could_ be, for Faith, with Jenny’s life on the line. Even if it had technically only been a little less than six weeks since she’d seen Buffy in the flesh, it felt like it had been _way_ longer. Time had passed differently in the weird little shadow realm.

“I think I’m going to break up with him.”

Faith blinked, turning around. “Uh, no offense, B,” she said, “but is now _really_ the time to be thinking about Angel?”

Buffy shook her head. “You don’t understand,” she said, but it was in a different tone than the one Faith was used to hearing from her—less flatly recriminating, more gently matter-of-fact. “Angel was _with_ Ms. Calendar when she was looking for answers that might bring Giles back. He _left_ me to keep her safe. If he wasn’t able to do that…” She swallowed. “Ms. Calendar got the short end of the stick from me _so_ many times,” she said. “I stonewalled her because I thought it was her fault that I lost the guy I loved, and it _wasn’t,_ and _she_ ended up being the one to lose everything. Because of _me.”_

“B,” said Faith softly.

“Faith—” Buffy’s voice was shaking. “Do you know why Angelus killed Giles?”

“Given that I didn’t actually know Giles was dead up until like five minutes ago, that’d be a hard _no_ from me,” said Faith.

Buffy didn’t even give Faith one of her Reproving Looks. “I told Ms. Calendar that Angelus was her fault,” she said. “I said that it was because of her that I wouldn’t be able to be happy. And she found a way to bring Angel back—to _make_ me happy—and Angelus hated that _so_ much that he went after Giles. _Killed_ Giles. To hurt her, because she wanted to _help_ me.” She sniffled, then let out a sobbing breath. “I love Angel,” she said, her voice breaking. “I do. So much. But if he had really wanted to make things up to Ms. Calendar, he’d have kept her safe.”

“B, I don’t think it’s that simple,” said Faith carefully. “Jenny’s…” A phrase came back to her. “Jenny’s an adult,” she said. “She’s made her choices. Sayin’ that Angel’s responsible for not stopping her—”

“Look, I’m _not_ saying Ms. Calendar’s blameless,” said Buffy shakily. “I’m just—I don’t think Angel _helped._ ”

“Is there anything he could’ve done?” said Faith.

“Don’t you _hate_ Angel?” said Buffy, looking genuinely confused. “Whenever we talk about him, you get all—”

“It doesn’t _matter_ whether I hate Angel or not,” said Faith. Now _her_ voice caught. “I know Jenny well enough to know that she wouldn’t want you shooting yourself in the foot over her. You _love_ the guy. Even if you’re doing it to be the Noble Chosen One, it’d _kill_ you to lose out on the chance to be happy, and you shouldn’t have to give it up for _anyone’s_ sake.”

Buffy shook her head. “That’s not why I’m doing this,” she said quietly.

“Then why—”

“Faith, you came to us for help,” said Buffy. “You told us that Ms. Calendar’s putting herself in danger and she needs people to get her out of it. You didn’t just assume that she had it under control, and you didn’t just let her tell you what to do. When I—” She had to visibly swallow a sob. “When I talked to Angel on the phone,” she said. “He wasn’t talking about Ms. Calendar going off the deep end. He was talking about how he was doing his best to help her, and how he had it all under control, and how she just needed some time to process what had happened to Giles. He didn’t ask for anybody else’s help, a-and—” She was really beginning to cry. “And he didn’t admit she _needed_ help, because he was too busy feeling bad about what _he’d_ done. He kept on _apologizing_ to me—”

“Buffy,” said Faith softly.

“A-and maybe you’re right, maybe she _was_ always gonna go this way, but Angel didn’t ever try to _stop her,_ and even if he _did,_ he _clearly_ did it too late—”

“Buffy—”

“And I just _can’t be with him,”_ Buffy sobbed. “I _can’t!_ Not anymore, not after what he and I did to Ms. Calendar—god, to _Giles—_ Faith, he _killed Giles,_ he killed Giles and I’ve _kissed_ him, I’ve held his _hand,_ he _killed Giles_ with those hands and I didn’t even _know—”_

Suddenly, getting to Jenny didn’t seem as important. Turning fully on the path, Faith pulled Buffy into a tight hug, letting Buffy sob into her shoulder. She felt Buffy’s surprised hitch of breath, but then Buffy curled into her, and—god, months ago, Faith would have been having some kind of gay panic attack, but now—

“It’s okay,” Faith whispered.

“We can’t save her!” Buffy sobbed. “We’re gonna lose her _and_ Giles and I _just_ told Giles I’m bi and I _can’t_ lose him there’s so much stuff I haven’t _told_ him even _besides_ the bi stuff—”

“It’s okay,” said Faith again, her own voice catching. “C’mon, B. We just gotta find that cave and that sword and everything’ll start making sense again.”

Buffy raised her tear-streaked face to look up at Faith, and that was when Faith saw it: the soft, glowing hint of _something_ in those stormy grey eyes. She’d seen that look directed at Angel—the forbidden-love longing, the first-love adoration, the true-love compassion—but she’d _never_ seen it when Buffy was looking at _her._

 _Bi,_ Faith realized belatedly. _She just told Giles she’s bi._

Now was absolutely not the time, Faith decided, but…later might be. After a long, charged moment, she stepped back, letting her hand linger on Buffy’s shoulder. “You’re gonna be okay,” she said.

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” said Buffy wryly.

“Yeah, well, neither would I, but I thought it might help to say it,” said Faith, and Buffy let out a tired laugh at that. “C’mon, B. I don’t think it’s much farther.”

It _wasn’t_ much farther. Two minutes more of careful maneuvering led them to the now-familiar clearing, and Faith felt her heart catch at the sight. The first time she’d found herself here, the castle had seemed foreboding and unfamiliar, but now…if she squinted, she thought she could make out a single glowing light in the window of the tallest tower.

Glowing _purple._

Faith very purposefully Did Not Think About Her Slayer Dream as she scanned the mountain below the castle. On the side near the trees, there actually was an outcrop of rock that did look a little like a cliff, and below it— _there!_ A barely-visible cave. “B, that’s it!” she said, pointing in its direction.

Buffy squinted. “Huh? Where?”

 _“There!”_ Impatiently, Faith pointed. “You can’t tell me you don’t see that!”

“I, uh. Don’t see it.” Buffy tilted her head, frowning. “You know, Faith, I think there’s something a little weird about all of this.”

“No shit,” said Faith, rolling her eyes. “We’re in a pocket dimension tryin’ to rescue Giles’s girlfriend from a shadow that wants to eat her. Let’s motor.” Without waiting for a response from Buffy, she hurried in the direction of the cliff, all but running towards the cave.

“That’s not what I’m talking about!” Buffy persisted, easily keeping up with her. “You’re the one who’s able to read the prophecies, you’re the one who’s able to get us to the castle, and now you’re the one who’s able to see the cave? If anyone’s _chosen_ to wield that Sword of Sunlight, it’s gotta be you.”

“It’s not me,” said Faith flatly. As they reached the cave, she slowed to a jog before stopping entirely. Buffy was about three feet shy of the cave’s entrance, and seemed to be very seriously gearing up to walk into a wall. “Okay, B, let me handle this one,” said Faith hastily, tugging Buffy over and into her side.

Buffy went pink.

Now Was Absolutely Not The Time, Faith reminded herself. Her resolve wasn’t crumbling. Nope. “C’mon,” she mumbled, blushing a little herself, and guided Buffy into the cave.

* * *

The cave was pitch-black, which didn’t surprise Faith too much: Umbra’s turf wasn’t exactly light-friendly. What _did_ surprise her was that, as they continued to haphazardly feel their way through the darkness, it slowly began to clear—a single tiny light was shining in the middle of the darkness, looking up at Faith with steady yellow eyes.

“You see that, right, B?” said Faith uncomfortably.

“It’s pretty much the only thing I _can_ see,” said Buffy with a frown. “Seeing as literally everything else is darkness. Are we sure this is the right cave?”

 _hello, maiden,_ said the little light. It had a voice like Umbra’s, soft and whispery—but where Umbra’s voice had wrapped itself around Faith, this voice spoke in the back of her head—as though it was a part of her. _i have waited many days and many nights for you to find me here._

Buffy was standing there with that same quizzical expression. “Uh, B, it’s talking to you,” said Faith. “Shouldn’t you say something?”

A strangely understanding misery crossed Buffy’s face. “Faith,” she said quietly.

And suddenly, Faith knew what Buffy had been trying to tell her. The prophecies, the castle, the mystery magic books, this little white light— “No,” she said. _“No.”_ Now _she_ was the one near tears. “Buffy, no. It’s gotta be you. It _can’t_ be me.”

 _do you forsake me, maiden, in my hour of need?_ The little light’s voice was gently inquisitive, without any hint of Umbra’s malice. _you know it to be you who must wield my guiding light._

“It’s not—it _can’t_ be,” Faith sobbed out. “I don’t—I can’t _do_ this! You know I can’t kill Jenny, Buffy, you _know_ I can’t do it, you know there’s _nothing_ that could _ever_ make me—”

“Faith,” said Buffy, her voice catching.

“I’m not the Chosen One, okay?” Faith was crying, but it wasn’t as pretty as Buffy always seemed to make it look—ugly, hiccupping sobs made it almost hard for her to breathe. “I’m not—I’m not some fuckin’ savior, B. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I know when that sword’s in my hand, I’m gonna make the wrong choice. I’m not like you!” She was crying almost too hard to speak. “I don’t know what to _do!”_

As Buffy stepped forward, the light expanded, revealing the rest of the cavern: a sword stuck in a stone, and a pile of golden armor beside it. Carefully, Buffy skirted the prophesized items, reaching instead to place her hands on Faith’s shoulders. “Kinda sucks, huh?” she said, and gave Faith a small, sad smile. “Weight of the world on your shoulders, and you know you’re not up to the task.”

“P-please,” Faith sobbed. “Please, B, you _gotta_ do this—”

“What makes you so sure I know what I’m doing?” Buffy reached up, a delicate, strong hand cupping Faith’s cheek. “What makes you so _certain_ that you don’t? Just because some old book says that Ms. Calendar has to die doesn’t make it what’s gonna happen. If you’re the Chosen One, it means that the choice you make is going to be the one that saves the world.”

“I don’t give a shit about the world,” Faith wept. “I just don’t want Jenny to die. Th-that’s why—B, it’s gotta be you. You’re the good one. You’re the one who cares—”

“Faith, we’re in this mess _because_ of a choice I made,” said Buffy, her voice shaking a little, her smile staying resolutely _there._ “I slept with Angel and he became Angelus. Angelus killed Giles. Ms. Calendar was so messed up by that, she sold her soul to a shadow.” She sniffled. “I know Giles would say it isn’t my fault,” she said, “but—it’s like you said about that guy you killed, right? Accidents happen, and we try not to let them happen again…” She trailed off. There were tears in her eyes as well. “But that doesn’t stop us from feeling shitty about it,” she said.

Faith stared.

“Look, I’m not gonna tell you that being the Chosen One is easy,” said Buffy. “Sometimes I feel like being the Chosen One is all I’m ever gonna get to be, and I _hate_ that more than anything. _All_ the time I’m living with the mistakes I’ve made, and every part of it _hurts._ But I don’t want you thinking that this is something you can’t do, okay? I don’t want you thinking I’m _better_ than you. The fact that you’re so scared of getting it wrong means that when you _do_ try and save Jenny, you’re gonna give it everything you’ve got.” Her thumb wiped a stray tear from Faith’s cheek. “I believe in you, Faith.”

And god, it was that _look_ in Buffy’s eyes that did it. That look that Faith had seen for Angel, the one that meant _you’re my sun and stars—_ it crumbled her resolve in an instant. Leaning forward, unthinking, she captured Buffy’s lips in a clumsy, tender kiss.

Buffy pulled back almost instantly, eyes wide.

“Shit,” said Faith, self-loathing coming back to her in a painful rush. “Fuck. God, Buffy, I-I’m _sorry—”_

Tightly gripping Faith’s face in her hands, Buffy leaned back in, pulling Faith into another impassioned kiss. This one was longer, softer, and god, _so_ easy to get lost in. Placing shaking hands at Buffy’s waist, Faith kissed her back, hardly able to believe that this was happening. Buffy kept on breaking the kiss just to lean in again, a series of quick pecks, then a slow, languid, toe-curling kiss that made Faith’s heart sing out _home—_

Home.

_Jenny._

_“Shit,”_ said Faith again, pulling back. “We gotta—there’s a—we should—”

“Battle,” said Buffy softly.

“Yeah,” said Faith, reaching carefully up to tuck a strand of hair behind Buffy’s ear.

“I’m breaking up with Angel when I get back,” said Buffy again.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Buffy gave her a small, timid smile. “But, uh—all that stuff I told you—it wasn’t the _only_ reason I had, you know?”  
Faith kinda thought she did. “Okay,” she said, giving Buffy an exhausted little grin in return. “So, uh, we’re gonna talk about this _after_ I pull that sword out of that stone and save Jenny, right?”

“Right,” Buffy agreed, still a little pink. She was bubbling over with that soft happiness that Faith had always _resented,_ because it had always meant she’d just seen Angel, but now…now it was about seeing _her._ Faith Lehane, who Buffy _believed in._ “Go ahead and get that sword.”

 _maiden,_ said a voice in the back of Faith’s head, sounding a little amused. _there is still much that i must explain._

“Huh?” said Faith intelligently.

“Sword—” At Faith’s gesture, Buffy realized. “Oh! You’re talking to the little glowy guy! Okay.”

 _i am corona,_ said the voice. _i am counterpart to umbra._

“Figured _that,”_ said Faith with a small frown. “But Umbra can’t handle any light, right? How is it possible for you to be here?”

 _your lady witch does not have darkness in her heart,_ said Corona. _it is that hidden truth that allows me to exist in this hidden space._

“What’s it saying?” asked Buffy curiously.

“Uh, it says Jenny doesn’t have darkness in her heart,” said Faith, who was _very_ happy to share that news. Hopefully, she added, “So that means that she can be saved, right?”

 _only you know the answer to that question,_ said Corona. _i can help you to the best of my abilities, but in the end, your lady witch’s survival will depend on one crucial decision._

“And what about Giles?”

 _the watcher’s life is not forfeit,_ said Corona. _umbra keeps its promises. once your lady witch’s time is up, true love’s kiss will be able to awaken him._

“Giles?” Buffy echoed.

Faith gave Buffy a thumbs-up. “True love’s kiss can wake him up tomorrow,” she informed her, feeling a soft warmth at Buffy’s relieved smile. To Corona, “So I have to, what, take the sword and the armor and—” God, she couldn’t finish that sentence.

 _you must reach your lady witch,_ said Corona, _but umbra knows all, and it knows the power you hold. it will send an army of shadows upon you to delay you long enough that the witch cannot be saved._

“Yeah, I didn’t do all that great against the shadows last time,” said Faith uncomfortably. “We sure this is a good idea?”

 _hence the armor,_ said Corona with gentle amusement. _and the sword._

“Man, that better be some good armor,” said Faith. After a moment of hesitation, she added, “Can I—I mean, should I get the sword now?”

 _you should indeed,_ Corona agreed. _time is of the essence._

Something occurred to Faith, then. “What about Buffy?”

“What?” said Buffy.

 _what?_ said Corona.

“Not even a Slayer’s gonna be able to hold their own against those shadows,” said Faith. “And this isn’t a battle I need to fight alone. Do you have some kind of armor for her?”

A long silence. Then Corona said, _you are wiser than you realize, maiden,_ and the air shimmered. When it settled, Faith saw another pile of armor next to the first—but this one was silver instead of gold. _maidens of the moon and sun,_ said Corona, _don your armor and go into battle._

* * *

The armor wasn’t really much armor—just some stuff to cover Faith from shoulders to waist, plus a weird little metal skirt that kinda made her feel like Wonder Woman or something. After getting into her own armor, Buffy helped Faith put the golden armor on—clumsily, but carefully—and tied Faith’s hair up with a strip of cloth when they were done.

 _maiden,_ said Corona, and Faith turned: a glowing white cloak was puddled on the floor of the cave. _in the hands of selfish ones, my protection is not much,_ said Corona, _but the goodness in your heart burns brightly enough to shield all those you love, if you so choose._

“Yeah, whatever,” said Faith, blushing, and hastily pulled the Sword of Sunlight out of the stone.

 _maiden,_ said Corona. There was a softness to its voice. _no matter what you think, your heart is a good one. muddied, bloodied hands can still be put to good work._

* * *

_“You’re not really all that evil, are you?”_

_“Well. Neither are you.”_

* * *

Faith missed Jenny so much it hurt. “Okay,” she said unsteadily, picking up the cloak and carefully tucking it around her shoulders. She was expecting to feel _something—_ the way Umbra had made her feel that crushing guilt—but she kind of just felt the same. Tired, and sad, and determined to be hopeful for Jenny’s sake.

 _my power comes from your power,_ said Corona. _i can only give you what i receive—but you are still stronger than you know._

“God, I hope so,” said Faith quietly. Turning to Buffy, she found herself at a loss for words. From the _moment_ she’d shown up in the library, Buffy had trusted her—and for the first time since coming to Sunnydale, Faith found herself feeling like she was worth that kind of trust. “Buffy, I…”

“Yeah,” said Buffy, smiling back. “Me too.” Moving forward, she placed her hands on Faith’s armored shoulders, giving Faith another shy, tender kiss. “We’ve got this, okay? Scary, sure, but we’ve _got_ it. Sun and moon, right?”

“Huh?” Faith looked at their armor. _“Oh._ Is _that_ what that’s about?”

Buffy giggled. “Makes sense that I’m the moon,” she said. “I’m more contemplative.”

 _“Hey—”_ Snickering, Faith hastened to follow Buffy out of the cave—and her laughter died almost immediately.

Blocking their path was a _plethora_ of shadow demons. The valley was full of them, the stairs up the mountain were lined with them, and even _more_ of them were pouring out of the forest. As Faith stepped out of the cave, they turned as one, all of them opening their mouths to _shriek_ with a single terrible voice.

Faith closed her eyes for just a moment, and brought Jenny’s awkward almost-smile to her mind. Jenny, and her love of libraries—her love of _Giles,_ Faith realized with a small jolt: her love of the place that reminded her of him. Jenny, and her _love,_ bubbling over and out just like Buffy’s did for Angel. As hard as she’d tried not to, Jenny _cared,_ and Faith wasn’t going to let Umbra kill that compassion. Raising the Sword of Sunlight, she _shrieked_ right back, skewering the first demon on it.

And the sword _glowed._ The shadow demon screamed, this time a cry of _pain_ rather than rage—and it dissolved into a weird black goo.

“Holy shit,” Faith whispered.

“WHAT THE HELL?” demanded an indignant Buffy, who was hitting another shadow demon repeatedly in the face. Her armor made it impossible for the demons to actually injure her, but she also wasn’t doing that great a job of killing them—and unlike Faith’s _extremely_ dead shadow demon, all of Buffy’s re-formed no matter how hard she tore them apart. “I HOPE YOU KNOW HOW COOL YOUR SWORD IS, FAITH, ‘CAUSE I WOULD _KILL_ FOR ONE OF THOSE RIGHT NOW!”

But Faith wasn’t trying to kill every single shadow demon in the world. Faith was trying to get to Jenny—and a sword like this might make it actually possible for her to do exactly that. Holding it up in front of her like a battering ram, she let out another battle cry, then _charged_ forward, running through the valley and towards the stairs.

The shadow demons trying to pull her back bounced off of her glowing golden armor. _Jenny._ The shadow demons in her path dissolved with one touch from the Sword of Sunlight. _Jenny._ As Faith forced her way up the stairs, shadow demons were either skewered on her sword or knocked off the mountain entirely.

 _Jenny,_ Faith thought, teeth gritted, tears in her eyes. Corona’s fire burned bright within her, indistinguishable from the love that fueled her: she was going to save the woman who had saved her. _Jenny. Jenny. Jenny._


	21. and you bring me home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy .... saturday. finals have had me all sorts of busy, so yesterday's chapter did not go up on time. call it a dramatic pause?

As easy as it had felt at first, shoving her way through the shadow demons and up the rest of the mountain started to get a little more complicated around the same time the shadow demons figured out the Sword of Sunlight. Realizing that none of them stood a chance, the shadow demons focused instead on attempting to knock her off the mountain, rushing her more deliberately in a way that made it difficult to keep her balance. It sure as shit didn’t help that the stairs were becoming slick with goo, and Faith’s cool new Sun Maiden boots were designed more to protect her feet than to keep her upright.

Back flat against the side of the cliff, Faith had to focus entirely on keeping her balance—which meant that she couldn’t actually make her way forward on the stairs. “Corona?” she said through gritted teeth, awkwardly elbowing one of the shadow demons off the mountain and watching it fall with a sense of dread. That might end up being her if she wasn’t careful. “A little help here?”

 _i hold only what is within you, maiden,_ said Corona.

“Yeah?” said Faith. “Well, right now, what’s _within me_ is not enough to keep me on these stairs _and_ get me _up_ these stairs. How the fuck am I supposed to get to Jenny?”

 _the witch showed you the way long ago,_ pointed out Corona. _i cannot answer your question when i know you hold the answer in your very pocket._

“God, you and Umbra and your stupid fuckin’ cryptic-ass—” Faith was cut off by another shadow demon attempting to knock her off balance. “Goddamn it! Can’t you just—I don’t know, pull an Umbra? That guy could _teleport.”_

 _umbra draws power from fear, guilt, and shame,_ said Corona. _it is made stronger by a tormented soul. as i am strengthened by the sunlight within you, umbra is fortified by the misery within your lady witch._

“So…” The realization hit Faith with a jolt. “Umbra’s like _you?_ But that means—”

 _unlike myself, umbra has no true power of its own,_ said Corona. _the power it creates is drawn from the anguish of your lady witch. any stories it may tell of its greatness are only fictions—all of them designed to entrap those such as your lady witch. her pain is what keeps these demons coming._

Faith stared at the demons on either side of her—on _all_ sides of her, counting the ones up in the courtyard and the ones down in the valley—and something in her _ached_ at the thought of Jenny hurting enough to let Umbra create this. “I have to help her,” she said, a lump in her throat. God, she couldn’t cry now. She _wouldn’t_ cry now. She’d done enough fuckin’ crying today to last a lifetime. “Corona, _how_ do I get to her?”

_did she not show you the way?_

“Again with that bullshit!” said Faith, a frustrated sob in her voice. “Listen, man, if there was some way to get to Jenny without going up these stupid goddamn stairs, I’d be using it right now, wouldn’t—” And then she stopped, eyes wide. “Wait,” she said unsteadily. “ _Wait—”_

 _did she not place the key in your hands?_ Corona’s voice had that gently teasing cadence to it, the one that meant it _knew_ Faith had put the pieces together.

Awkwardly, Faith adjusted her armor to dig in the pocket of her jeans. Slowly, she pulled out the amethyst crystal, her heart hammering in her chest as she held it up to get a good look at it. It was glowing, now, a strange, dangerous violet hue just like Umbra’s eyes—and just like the tower had glowed in her Slayer dream.

“Well, shit,” she whispered, and carefully donned the necklace.

She felt the darkness wrap around her before she saw it—and while it felt more like Umbra than Jenny, Faith found it bizarrely comforting. Better the devil you knew than the demons you didn’t—and she’d been stuck on that slippery staircase for long enough to make Umbra’s sickly presence almost a relief in its familiarity.

 _do not let your guard down yet, maiden of the sun,_ said Corona quietly. _you are not out of the woods just yet._

 _Sure as shit I’m not,_ Faith thought back. _I’m stuck in the darkness again._

This time, the darkness seemed unwilling to subside. Though Corona’s flame kept it at bay, it also wasn’t clearing, refusing to reveal anything close to Faith’s Slayer dream. Any moment now, Faith expected to see Jenny, face contorted in that horribly plastic smile—and yet the darkness remained stubbornly present, obfuscating absolutely everything.

“Witch?” Faith called. Her voice echoed, as though she was standing in some kind of empty cavern. She tried again. “Witch?” After a moment of hesitation, “J-Jenny?”

No answer. But Faith had learned that no answer from Jenny didn’t necessarily mean that Jenny wasn’t there.

“I’m here,” said Faith. Her hands were shaking.

* * *

_The maiden raised the Sword of Sunlight high and proud. Then, with a flash of gold, she sunk it into the darkness, ending the endless night._

* * *

Was this when she was supposed to cut through the darkness, parting it like a curtain to reveal Jenny on the other side? The sword had the power to end Umbra, she knew, but what if ending Umbra meant ending Jenny too? All Faith knew was darkness—and Jenny could be anywhere. What happened if she stabbed the sword forwards and found Jenny shish-kebabbed on the end of it?

Faith closed her eyes, trying her best to hone her slayer senses—but she was too scared to manage it. She kept on thinking about Jenny. She couldn’t stop thinking about Jenny. Jenny, alone in the darkness, resigned to give her life up for Giles’s sake.

YOU ASKED ME ONCE, she heard Umbra whisper, its voice surrounding her, WHAT YOU COULD DO AGAINST ME. DO YOU NOW KNOW THE ANSWER TO THAT QUESTION?

“Give her up,” said Faith. “Give her to me.”

THE LADY WITCH AND I CUT A DEAL, said Umbra. I AM NOT ONE TO BREAK MY BARGAINS.

“One,” said Faith, “fuck you. Two, you’ve literally got her twenty-four hours before you’re supposed to have her—”

THE LADY WITCH RECLAIMED HER NAME IN HER HEART, said Umbra. THOUGH IT WAS ONLY FOR A SECOND, HER LIFE IS STILL MINE AS FORFEIT. I AM HONORABLE, MAIDEN OF THE SUN, REGARDLESS OF WHAT YOU THINK OF ME—AND I REFUSE TO BEND MY RULES FOR AN IMPERTINENT CHILD WHO DOES NOT UNDERSTAND THE UNIVERSE AS IT IS.

“ _Give_ her to me!” Faith screamed.

AND NOW YOU CRY, CHILD, said Umbra. WHAT ELSE HAVE YOU EVER BEEN GOOD FOR? THROWING TANTRUMS WHEN LOVE IS NOT HANDED TO YOU ON A SILVER PLATTER—YOU DO NOT DESERVE THE LOVE THAT JENNY CALENDAR HARBORS FOR YOU.

And Faith’s anger vanished as quickly as if someone had thrown cold water on her. “What?” she whispered.

I WILL REPEAT MYSELF, said Umbra. YOU ARE HOTHEADED, RECKLESS, FOOLISH—

 _what do you hold within you?_ whispered Corona. _what gives you your power, maiden? what burns brightly in your heart?_

“You said Jenny loves me,” said Faith softly. “Why did you say that?”

And for a moment, there was a startled silence. A chill swept through Faith’s bones, but it didn’t feel like a threat—it felt like Umbra was _alarmed._ JENNY CALENDAR, said Umbra, IS DEAD. SHE DIED UPON MY CLAIMING HER. THERE IS ONLY A HOLLOWED-OUT HUSK OF A WOMAN—

Faith dropped the Sword of Sunlight with a clatter, closing her eyes again. This darkness was her own.

DO YOU DARE REFUSE TO FIGHT ME, MAIDEN?

“Jenny?” said Faith softly.

JENNY CALENDAR IS DEAD—

“I know you’re there,” said Faith. “I know you are. I’d know if you weren’t, and I believe in you. And I know you’re bein’ all dumb and witchy and making faces and acting like you’re shit on my shoe or whatever, ‘cause you’ve got a guilt complex that makes _mine_ look like small potatoes, but _I believe in you._ That matters.”

JENNY CALENDAR CANNOT HEAR YOU!

“I’m not gonna cut through the darkness,” said Faith. “I’m not gonna bring the sunlight back. Not if it means losing you. You’re giving yourself up for _what?_ For a dead guy? You shut yourself away ‘cause you thought you couldn’t fix anything, but you—” Her voice broke. “You fixed _me,”_ she said unsteadily. “You gave me a _home._ I’ve never had that before. And you didn’t make me anything I wasn’t already, ‘cause I’m kickass as fuck—but you made me feel safe in a way no one’s ever even _tried_ to. You didn’t treat me like a Slayer or a bad bitch or a murderer—you treated me like _Faith.”_

Umbra let out a furious scream, and Faith felt the darkness compressing around her—but it was slow, like quicksand, and it was still giving her time to talk. _“Please,”_ she whispered, voice breathless and strained. “We _promised,_ remember? _You_ promised that you’d work on your death wish, and _I_ promised I wouldn’t throw myself into this shit, a-and I _know_ we aren’t doin’ that great at it right now but we can _try again_ if you’ll just _come back!”_

YOU ARE OUT OF TIME, SLAYER! howled Umbra, more enraged than Faith had ever heard it. I WILL RIP THE AIR FROM YOUR LUNGS!

“Jenny—” Screwing up her face, taking a last gulp of air, Faith forced her hand through the pressure surrounding her, extending her pinky out. “I _love you.”_

* * *

Nothing.

Nothing.

And then—

* * *

It was such a minute feeling that Faith almost missed it. Convinced as she was that she’d finally run out of luck, she was more focused on the dizziness coming from the lack of oxygen, and the pressure holding her in place, and the exhausted sadness of what sure as shit felt like failure. Before she noticed that Jenny’s pinky was linked with hers, she first noticed the pressure dissipating, and then the air returning to her, and _then—_

A single point of light in the darkness, starting at their joined pinkies and creeping up both of their arms. Around her shoulders, Corona was rising up just like Umbra, illuminating Jenny’s wide-eyed face as the room was flooded with light. If Faith had had breath to speak, she would probably have said something along the lines of _what the actual fuck,_ but she thought Jenny’s expression summed it up pretty well too.

Umbra was _screaming,_ now, recoiling from Corona’s bright, quiet warmth. I WILL NOT CONCEDE! it howled.

 _umbra,_ said Corona simply. _our age-old battle has finally been resolved. accept your defeat with grace._

I WILL NOT BE BURNED OUT LIKE SOME COMMON DEMON! Umbra howled. THERE IS NO SUNLIGHT IN MY DOMAIN!

And Jenny spoke, then, her voice _different_ from Faith remembered it—lower, and rougher, and warmer, and _human._ “Guess again, you little bastard,” she hissed, and with her free hand, she _yanked_ Umbra off of her shoulders, throwing it directly into Corona’s waiting light.

Outside the tower window, something—changed.

“What the actual fuck,” whispered Faith hoarsely.

One by one, stars were popping into being in the night sky, illuminating the courtyard. The moon was the last to return, and as the moonlight shone down on the valley below them, Faith caught sight of Buffy—the ground around her coated in the same black goo caused by the Sword of Sunlight—staring up at the sky just as incredulously as the rest of them.

Jenny’s pinky slipped out of hers. With horror, Faith moved instinctively towards her—but Jenny, doubled over, held up a hand. She swayed, then _retched,_ black goo splattering the floor.

“Oh, _ew,”_ said Faith, who still felt a little dizzy.

Jenny looked up, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “Yeah,” she said, and gave Faith a small, unsteady smile. “Not the best first impression, I guess?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” said Faith. There was a lump in her throat. All of this felt so bizarrely _normal._ “I’ve met you before, remember? Did you throw up Umbra _and_ your memories of the last six weeks?”

“I wasn’t at my best these last six weeks,” said Jenny. And now that Faith was looking closer, she could kind of see what Jenny was talking about: the empty violet eyes were gone, replaced with a soft, warm brown. The raven-black hair had traces of brown, too, and blue, and hints of gold where the light caught in it. Jenny’s cheeks were pink instead of black, and she was smiling all tentative and soft like that lit-up lady in the photograph. “I’m trying to think of this as a fresh start, you know? That’s what true love’s kiss is supposed to do.”

“Ex _cuse_ me?” said Faith.

“Oh, god,” said Jenny, and made one of the witch’s Deeply Exasperated faces. “Okay. I _know_ Rupert explained the magical theory behind true love’s kiss to you in that car ride. I was _watching._ Were you seriously not listening to any of that?” She considered. “That’s a ridiculous question, I guess. _Clearly_ you weren’t listening to _anyone,_ because if you had listened to _me,_ we wouldn’t _be_ in this position. _Not_ that I’m complaining—”

Staring at Jenny—Jenny, making her usual annoyed-but-weirdly-soft face, standing there like she was totally okay—something close to breaking in Faith finally snapped. With a wordless sob, she _lurched_ forward, tackling Jenny in a fierce hug.

Jenny gasped, falling awkwardly back onto the floor—but hugged Faith back _all the way,_ tight and fierce, pressing kisses into Faith’s hair and whispering the kind of mom things that Faith had always wanted someone to say to her. Stuff like _you did amazing_ and _baby I am so so proud of you_ and _don’t ever put yourself in danger like that again._

It was warm, Faith realized. Warmer than it was supposed to be. Slowly, she turned her head, looking out towards the tower window—and her jaw dropped. “Jenny,” she whispered unsteadily; it came out a little tearful, still. “Jenny, the _sun’s coming up.”_

“Hm?” Jenny, very distracted with hugging Faith as tightly as possible, seemed reluctant to take her attention off of that for even a second. It seemed to take a moment for Faith’s words to register. “What— _oh_ my god. This is _Umbra’s_ realm. How is that possible?”

 _good lady witch,_ said Corona politely, wriggling a little in Jenny’s arms, _i may be able to shine some light on this situation._

However, they were interrupted exactly before Corona could. With a crash, the tower doors burst open, and a breathless, goo-splattered Buffy stumbled through—still looking _unfairly_ hot, in Faith’s opinion. “Faith?” Buffy was babbling. “There were these weird glowy lights from this tower and all the shadow guys dissolved into goo, which first of all, _gross,_ second of all, this _was_ silver armor before that happened, third of all, I think the goo glued my hair together—” She stopped in her tracks, eyes wide. “Oh my god,” she whispered tearfully.

Faith couldn’t really think of anything to say, and she figured Jenny being okay kinda spoke for itself. She gave Buffy a wobbly grin instead.

“Buffy,” said Jenny, looking somewhat ashamed. “I’m—god, I am _so_ sorry that I—”

“Oh my _god,”_ said Buffy again. She was starting to smile. “Do _not_ apologize to me, okay? You’ve done that like ninety times. It’s getting old.” With a clatter of armor, she dropped to her knees next to Faith and Jenny, pressing a kiss to Faith’s cheek. “Ms. Calendar, are you okay?”

“Uh,” said Jenny, visibly taken aback.

“I’ll just take that as a _yes,”_ said Buffy. “You don’t _look_ like an evil witch, and I get the sense Faith wouldn’t be hugging you if you were. That girl’s way too smart to get herself enchanted.” Abruptly, she frowned. After another moment, she said, “Actually, Faith, are you sure you’re not enchanted?”

“Shut up,” said Faith, grinning, and pulled away from Jenny to give Buffy a hello kiss.

“You know, _logically,_ if she _was_ enchanted, neither of us would be extremely trustworthy people to ask—” Jenny began.

“So _you_ seriously haven’t changed at all,” said Buffy, and gave Jenny a grin.

Jenny didn’t look cheered by this. “I wasn’t exactly doing my best when we last saw each other,” she said. “Regardless of how ready you are to forgive me, I still don’t feel comfortable with what I put you through.”

“Ms. Calendar—” Buffy hesitated, clearly choosing her words carefully. “We had all lost Giles,” she said. “And while that doesn’t excuse what you decided to do, I think it does explain it a little bit, you know? Maybe the stuff you’ve done is messed up as all get-out, but Faith wouldn’t be able to bring you back if some part of you hadn’t always _known_ that.” She gave Jenny a small, wobbly smile. “I spent a lot of time being mad at you,” she said. “I remember two different ways that panned out, and neither of them ended with me feeling all that great about myself. I _know_ you’re sorry for what you did to me. I’m sorry I took out all of my Angel-related drama on you.”

Jenny looked first surprised, then touched. Without a word, she reached out to Buffy, quietly tucking a strand of hair behind Buffy’s ear. Buffy closed her eyes, smiling.

“So, hey,” said Faith loudly, feeling a small stab of jealousy. (Firmly, she told it to Shut Up. It wasn’t a good look to be jealous of your maybe-girlfriend.) “Are we ever gonna find out why the fuck the sun is out?”

“Oh, yeah!” Buffy beamed. “I was wondering why this place looked all cheery. This castle is kinda gloomy, huh?”

“You say _gloomy,_ I say _peak interior décor,”_ Jenny countered. “Who _doesn’t_ want to live like Morticia Addams?”

 _umbra is gone, but its power remains,_ Corona explained. _and as the power it accumulated was entirely made up of the emotions it collected from the lady witch, it has returned to her upon its absence._

“…say what now?” said Jenny, eyes going _very_ wide.

“Hold the fuckin’ phone,” said Faith. “Are you saying that Jenny has all of the power that _Umbra_ had?”

 _the power that umbra had was only ever drawn from the lady witch,_ said Corona. _think of it less as the lady witch being gifted power, and more as—power, organically grown, returning fully to its owner._

Slowly, Jenny raised her hands, creating an orb of light within her cupped palms. As the orb swirled, Faith thought she could make out a single familiar face—Giles, squinting at them through the mist, a small, bemused smile on his face. And then he was gone, and another face was there—Jenny herself, smiling like she had in the photograph, dark eyes bright with joy.

 _this magic is no darkness,_ said Corona, _this magic is sunlight, lady witch, because you have chosen to make it so. never did you let that flame in your heart burn out, and i must thank you for that—as it is what allowed your maiden of the sun to find you in the darkness._

The orb vanished as Jenny dropped her hands. She looked over towards Faith with a small, tender smile. “I can’t take all the credit for that,” she said. “I had a hell of a lot of help from this little trooper when it came to keeping my sunlight alive.”

“I am _not_ little,” said Faith. “I am _seventeen in July!”_

“Summer child!” said Buffy suddenly. At Jenny’s and Faith’s surprised looks, Buffy giggled, then said, “You were _so sure_ that _summer child_ had to mean me—but Faith, you were born in _July!”_

“Who the fuck gives a shit about prophecy,” said Faith, nestling into Jenny’s side again.

“Faith,” said Jenny, “prophecy _is_ what showed you how to save me.”

“It is _not!_ Prophecy said I was supposed to _stab you!”_

“Wait, really? Yikes.” Jenny looked down at her abdomen with a frown. “Well, I look significantly un-stabbed. Clearly you went wrong somewhere.”

“What the fuck, I’ve been back with you for like _five minutes_ and you’re already giving me shit—”

“I love you.”

“Ugh, shut _up_ ,” said Faith, snuggling closer to Jenny.

“Okay, this actually makes…so much sense,” said Buffy, watching them with an amused grin.

* * *

They descended the staircase together, Faith still tucked contentedly into Jenny’s side. This time, the staircase didn’t lead into nightmare flashbacks (holy shit, Faith had never really considered that she’d watched _Giles_ die—and now she felt _ridiculous,_ because she had _definitely_ seen Giles wearing that significantly-less-mangled-and-bloodied shirt)—instead, they walked out into a sunlit atrium, a big stone bier in the middle.

“Okay, this thing was _definitely_ in a basement,” said Jenny. “Why the hell is it suddenly out in the open air?”

“Hey, Ms. Calendar, that looks like a body,” said Buffy uneasily. “Anything you wanna share with the class?”

Faith felt a sudden twist of fear. “Jenny—”

Jenny blinked, clearly surprised by Faith’s sudden reticence—and then comprehension reached her reassuring smile. “Faith, even if I _was_ planning to wake up Rupert, it wouldn’t kill me,” she said. “True love’s kiss burns out all the _evil,_ remember? If I’d still had Umbra running through me, I’d be toast, but all this magic?” She set off a few cheerful sparks at her fingertips. “That’s all _me._ ” There was an almost furtive wonder to her smile. “Nothing but sunlight there.”

“Wait,” said Buffy suddenly. “What do you mean, you’re not planning to wake Giles up?” There was no accusation in her voice—only a shaky fear. “Aren’t you going to true love’s kiss him?”

There was a firm resignation to Jenny’s expression. “I don’t think that’s the best idea,” she said. “What I’ve spent the last year doing—shutting myself away, giving in to the _worst_ parts of me, using Rupert to _justify_ it—that’s not love.” She looked up again, eyes fixed pointedly on Buffy. “But there’s someone here who I _know_ can wake Rupert up—”

“Yeah,” said Buffy. “You.”

Jenny blinked. “Buffy—”

“Look, you and I both know I can wake Giles up without even breaking a sweat,” said Buffy, blue-grey eyes fixed on Jenny with the boundless compassion that had always made Faith feel so fucking warm. “If the whole concept of true love really does work the way you and Giles say it does, I don’t need romantic love to—I don’t know, kiss him on the cheek and get him to open his eyes? Which is lucky for me, ‘cause _ech._ No offense meant, Ms. Calendar, I know _you_ like him _like that_ —” She cut herself off. “Anyway. My point is that…I know for a _fact_ that I can wake Giles up, but so can you. And I want you to be able to know that too.”

“Buffy, look at what I did for his sake,” said Jenny quietly. “If I love like this—”

Buffy shook her head. “Yeah, but you _don’t,”_ she said. “You never did. If you really _were_ just doing this for Giles, Faith wouldn’t have been able to save you. Maybe it was easier to tell yourself that this was all about trying to get him back, but I saw what it did to you when he died in your arms.” She swallowed. “I know what it’s like when someone you love _that_ much dies, and you’re holding them, and you have to watch them leave you. And I _know_ what it’s like to decide that it’s easier to be someone else than Jenny Calendar, ‘cause I spent an entire summer being Anne.”

Jenny looked somewhat stunned.

“I get it,” said Buffy, giving her a lopsided smile. “I do. And I know I could be wrong, but I really don’t think I am.”

“And what if you are?” said Jenny quietly.

“Maybe don’t shoot yourself in the foot before you’ve even _tried_ my way of doing things?” Buffy gently bumped Jenny’s shoulder. “I’ve got Slayer intuition, remember? I’m good at this kind of thing.”

Jenny wavered, eyes darting to Faith. “If you don’t want me to do this—”

“Don’t use me as an excuse, witch bitch,” said Faith, and gave Jenny a small, challenging smile. “You too chicken to true-love Giles the way he deserves?”

“You are so fucking annoying,” said Jenny, and cupped Faith’s face in one hand, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Absolute nightmare girl.”

“Isn’t that _you?”_ said Faith. “Corona says I’m all sunshine.”

Rolling her eyes, Jenny smiled, letting her hand fall away from Faith’s face as she turned towards Rupert. Faith felt that same anxiety curling in her chest, and reminded herself—firmly—that there was nothing to fear.

“This is the happily-ever-after, remember?” said Buffy gently, slipping her hand into Faith’s. “It’s gonna be okay.”

* * *

Slowly, Jenny crossed to the bier, pulling the bloodied sheet away. Rupert’s body had been restored to full health by Umbra, and his chest rose and fell as though he really was only sleeping—but his clothing was still that horrible mess of bloodied fabric. With a wave of her hand, he was instead wearing his usual tweed and glasses—and _god,_ this whole magic thing was going to take a lot to get used to.

She looked back, once, towards Faith and Buffy. Buffy gave her a thumbs-up, and her girl gave her a wobbly smile. _Faith—_ that extraordinary kid whose love for her had shattered everything Jenny thought concrete and unchangeable. If she was going to be worth that kind of love, she was going to have to step up and be the grown-up—not get caught up in her own grief and pain. She’d failed these kids before, but she had no intention of repeating her mistakes.

She turned again to Rupert, raising a trembling hand to his face. She hadn’t been this close to him in a year—not _really._ Not with the promise of holding him again. She leaned in, her hair falling in a dark curtain to hide their faces from the girls, and pressed her lips softly to his.

* * *

The world felt hazy and heavy and strange as Giles opened his eyes. A year’s worth of memories had been reconfigured by the realization that the last day of his life had been hidden from him—a realization that had occurred almost instantly after Buffy had crossed the threshold. He remembered so clearly his dying thought: _I should have told her I love her. She’ll live out her days not knowing._

And there she was, looking down at him now. Jenny’s eyes were wide, her lips parted, as though she hadn’t truly expected her kiss to wake him. Starlight was woven into her hair—a thousand and one strange little dots—and tiny constellations shone on her black dress. No—not black. Deep blue, like the night sky.

Wordlessly, Giles smiled, sitting up to kiss her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stay tuned for next week's epilogue!


	22. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLOT TWIST happy THURSDAY! i posted so many of these chapters late and i wanna thank all of you for putting up with that.

Jenny was woken by a sobbing cry. It had been a few months since this had last happened, but she still knew the drill: carefully, she untangled herself from the bedsheets, tiptoed down the hall, and turned on the light in Faith’s bedroom. Eyes still clouded with drowsy terror, Faith blinked up at her like she didn’t entirely understand why Jenny was there.

“Hey, Slayer,” said Jenny, giving her a small smile. “Move over.”

Faith sniffled. “This isn’t supposed to still be happening,” she mumbled.

“Yeah, well, we went through some shit,” said Jenny. “Move over. Do you need me to get the nightlight out of the closet, or should I just keep the lights on?”

Faith chewed on her lip, then said almost timidly, “Lights on.” She looked deeply ashamed of herself. “I-I know I’m usually able to sleep without the nightlight, I just—”

“Hey,” said Jenny. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to have bad days.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing down Faith’s slightly-tangled hair. “Do you need anything? Water, or—”

Without a word, Faith wrapped her arms around Jenny’s waist, burying her face in Jenny’s shoulder and sharply inhaling. Jenny kissed the top of Faith’s head—that always seemed to help—then pulled back, wiping a tear off of Faith’s cheek with her thumb. “It was all dark and Umbra had you,” said Faith unsteadily. “And this time I-I couldn’t—”

“I know,” said Jenny softly.

“And he didn’t—”

“I know.”

“You’re gonna stay here, right?”

“You know I am.”

“No, I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” said Jenny, and bumped her forehead against Faith’s. God, it always felt good to see the way Faith smiled these days—shy at first, then soft and _warmed,_ like just remembering that she was loved was enough to make her happy. “And you know I am. I’m always going to be here, okay?”

Faith’s shoulders relaxed, and she squirmed a little in that way that meant she wanted to lie down again. Carefully, Jenny slid them both down the pillows, positioning herself so that she was lying right in front of Faith. “See?” she said, reaching out to take Faith’s hand in hers. “Right where you can see me. Lights on, no Umbra, no strung-out glowy-eyed witch. Do you want me to put you to sleep?”

Faith shook her head.

“Okay. Do you want me to talk to you?”

Faith nodded.

“How does a story sound?”

“Is it gonna be some shitty allegorical fairytale?” said Faith doubtfully.

Jenny grinned. “I mean, I was gonna talk about how Buffy and I went for frozen yogurt and she broke the machine, _but—”_

“Oh, no, wait, I wanna hear that one!” said Faith with interest.

“Once upon a time—”

 _“Fuck_ you,” said Faith. Jenny started laughing. “I’m serious, man!”

“Once upon a time,” said Jenny through giggles, “the fro-yo machine broke because your girlfriend pulled _too_ hard on it when it was jammed—”

“You’re so fuckin’ annoying,” said Faith, snuggling into the blankets and looking up at Jenny—all comfort and contentment, even with the lingering anxiety in her eyes.

Jenny kissed her forehead, then pulled back, yawning softly before continuing. “Once upon a time, there was a computer science teacher who had to come up with a really convincing reason as to why her boss had two sets of memories regarding the filing of paperwork to find a replacement for both his computer teacher _and_ his librarian.”

“Wait, what?” Now Faith looked close to laughter herself. “Is _that_ why you and Giles were both all stressed today?”

“This is all totally fictional.”

_“Sure.”_

“ _Anyway,”_ said Jenny. “The computer science teacher was very smart and very beautiful _and_ had magic powers—”

“This lady sounds so fake,” said Faith. “I liked your fairy tales way better.”

Jenny shot a tiny little spark of electricity at Faith’s nose. Faith sneezed, then started laughing. “Don’t test me,” said Jenny, but she was starting to laugh too. “Okay. So she used her magic powers to erase all records of any weird deaths, and luckily for her, they still hadn’t found a permanent replacement for the computer teacher. Her boss was pretty pissed that she’d just gone on vacation _and_ that everyone had thought she was dead, but her—uh, _the_ _librarian_ talked him down.” She waited for dramatic effect, then added, “By slamming him up against the desk. Again.”

“Man, Giles is cool as _shit,”_ said Faith. “Did you tell him he’s cool as shit?”

“This is a totally hypothetical story,” said Jenny. “Get some sleep.”

Faith rolled her eyes, smiling slightly. “Tell me another story,” she mumbled. “One I _have_ heard before.”

Jenny tucked the blankets more securely around her summer child, squeezed Faith’s hand, and began.

* * *

_Once upon a time, there was a knight who loved his lady._

* * *

“I am so sorry,” said Jenny into his shoulder.

“No, it’s—” Giles awkwardly patted her hair. “It’s fine. This sort of thing happens all the time.”

“To _who?”_

“Um,” said Giles. “Demigods?” Jenny raised her face to look at him at that. He couldn’t quite make out her expression, given that the entire bedroom was now in pitch darkness, and hastened to clarify, “I-I know you’re still adjusting to your powers, dear, a-and it’s quite often that those gifted with intense magical ability struggle to control it in moments of…” He coughed. “Um. Intense emotion or sensation.”

Jenny groaned, hiding her face in his chest.

“I’m glad to know it was good,” Giles continued awkwardly.

“Please stop,” said Jenny. “This is so embarrassing. I spent a _year_ just _totally_ in control of _all_ of my magic, and then my partner gets me off _one time—”_

Giles coughed. It sounded a bit like “twice.”

 _“Whatever!”_ said Jenny.

“I’m simply saying that it’s not as though you didn’t have _reason_ to be a bit—distracted,” said Giles, a little bemused to find _Jenny_ the flustered one in this situation. “I’ve been told I’m quite attentive.”

“You _are!”_ Jenny raised mortified eyes to his. The lights seemed to be coming back on—ah, no, that was just a glowing orb of light floating above them. Thank heavens for his dear Jenny and her truly terrifying magical prowess. “And I wasn’t—I mean, god, Rupert, I’ve _missed_ you, and it’s been literally a year since I’ve had sex, and you were doing something _really nice_ with your mouth—”

“Hmm,” said Giles, and kissed her shoulder. “Nice as this?”

“Oh my god _stop,”_ said Jenny breathlessly. The light above them shuddered somewhat ominously, as if on the verge of an explosion. “Rupert, I’m serious! I still really don’t know how to control this stuff. Umbra was the one who would keep my magic properly channeled so I could use it without things going nuts, but now—” She waved a hand. Above them, the glowing ball divided into a thousand tiny pinpricks against Giles’s ceiling—like little stars shining down on the both of them, illuminating Jenny in fragments of light. God, she was beautiful. “If I’m not paying attention, weird stuff happens.”

“Hmm,” said Giles softly, and tugged at Jenny’s hip, rolling her over to press her gently against the bed. “Kiss me.”

“I shorted out the power in your apartment when you went down on me,” Jenny persisted. “What if penetrative sex means I take out an entire city block? There’s a hospital near here, I don’t want—”

Giles let out a breathless laugh.

_“What?”_

“You’re so—” Still giggling, Giles kissed her. _God,_ he hadn’t fully appreciated kissing this woman until she’d re-entered his life—or, he supposed, he had re-entered hers. “Ms. Calendar, you’re so wholly adorable!” he said tenderly. _“An entire city block?_ For one thing, the hospital is _two blocks_ from here, and for another, I find it _entirely_ unlikely that I’m good enough to make you lose control of your magics to _that_ extent.”

Jenny glared up at him, her short, dark hair fluffed out against the pillows. “You are _clearly_ underestimating how good you are,” she said stubbornly.

“Oh, I like this line of conversation,” said Giles. “Really boosts my ego.”

 _“Ru_ pert—”

“Jenny.” Giles cupped her cheek in his hand. She closed her eyes, turning her head towards his touch with a soft sigh, and the unguarded smile on her face made his heart flutter in response. “I’m here, aren’t I? I’ll keep an eye on things.”

“You’re here,” echoed Jenny, clearly considering the concept. Then, “Screw it. You’re right. I want to get laid and that’s _totally_ worth cutting the town’s power.”

“Yes, that’s—oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Giles, and kissed her again as she started to laugh.

* * *

_Once upon a time, the sun and the moon worked in tandem._

* * *

“Spin-kick-drop-kick- _SLAM,”_ chanted Buffy, going through each movement with the scary precision she’d honed thanks to that year on the cheer squad. And being a Vampire Slayer, of course, but that was _after_ cheerleading and considerably less cutthroat. “How am I looking?” she called, careful to avoid the cloud of vampire dust.

“Two more, babe!” Faith shouted from the other side of the cemetery, wrestling with a third vampire. “Fuckin’ _try_ me, asshole, I’m the _Sun Maiden_ and my mom’s a witch and she can _kick your ass—”_

Buffy did another graceful twirl, knocking one of the vampires into a jutting-out tree branch before staking the other. Faith, who had just finished with her guy, dusted herself off, striding over to kiss Buffy on the cheek. “Oh, come _on,”_ said Buffy, and tugged Faith into an _actual_ kiss, hooking her fingers into her girlfriend’s belt loops. Faith looked a little star-struck when Buffy pulled back. “There’s my girl,” said Buffy happily.

“You did good,” said Faith.

“You did better,” said Buffy.

 _“Please,”_ said Faith. “I had one to your three.”

“I’m sorry, are we not counting the goo demon thing from last week?” Buffy countered. “That was all you.”

“You two are kinda annoyingly cute,” said Xander, who had been sitting on one of the benches while Willow helped him with his homework. “Aren’t they, Will?”

“Huh?” said Willow, who had been watching Buffy and Faith with a slightly wistful expression. “Oh! Yeah, I wish _I_ had a hot Slayer girlfriend.”

“Me too,” said Xander. Then, “Wait, what?”

* * *

_Once upon a time, a lone warrior did his penance._

* * *

Not long after the events with Giles and Jenny, the truth about Angel’s involvement and subsequent murder had come out. Though he wasn’t surprised at the _extreme_ fury Giles directed at him on his girlfriend’s behalf, Angel had expected some degree of Buffy’s outrage to be directed at a miserably repentant Jenny—and was, as such, _extremely_ surprised when Buffy sided with _Giles_ instead of him. “Look, Angel, I agree that Ms. Calendar shouldn’t have killed you,” she had persisted, “but can you at least _think_ about what you did?”

“Buffy, I’m sorry about what happened to Giles—” Angel had replied, guilt weighing heavy on his chest.

But Buffy had shook her head. “Not Giles,” she’d said.

And now Angel was sitting in a bar, drinking. Again. He didn’t entirely know what to do with himself, but he knew that Sunnydale definitely wasn’t the place for him. The pain he had brought down upon the people he had intended to protect, the girl he loved—he could no longer help them, had _hurt_ them, and didn’t deserve to be a part of their crusade. Yet again, he found himself isolated by his nature—

“What the fuck,” came an incredulous voice. A _familiar_ voice. “What the actual fuck. _Angel?_ Shouldn’t you be licking the Slayer’s boots back in Sunnydale?”

Slowly, Angel turned to face Spike. “You’re one to talk,” he said. “How’s Drusilla?”

Spike’s face twisted; he didn’t answer. “You’re a long way from Sunnydale, pretty boy,” he said instead. “Might be high time I finally pummel you into the dust the way you deserve— _without_ your little girlfriend to knock me sprawling when I try.”

“Not my girlfriend anymore,” said Angel numbly.

Spike’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh?” he said with interest.

“Just leave, Spike.”

“No, I’m intrigued,” said Spike, pulling up a bar stool. “You had that girl eating out of your hand. She was a wreck when you were Angelus, and last I saw, you two were still on good enough terms that you could manage to stay in town. What happened that made you finally decide to split?”

And maybe it was the loneliness, or the sadness, or that lingering sense of guilt for something he didn’t even fully understand, but it was probably the fact that Angel had known Spike for a very long time. He turned on his bar stool, hesitated, and began the story of Rupert Giles’s death.

Spike listened with a slowly growing frown through Angel’s description of Jenny, cocked his head a little when Angel mentioned Lilybeth’s concern, and narrowed his eyes a little at the mention of Max’s willingness to help. But it was when Angel explained Jenny’s trip to Dite that Spike finally held a hand up and said, _“Hold_ it, mate. You did know she was suicidal, yeah?”

“…what?” said Angel.

“This whole—” Spike waved his hand. “This whole story, that Calendar lady’s been horrible to those kids you say she loves so much. She ignores that college friend of hers when they express concern, she chases down _specifically_ dark magics before even _considering_ trying safer alternatives—you _can’t_ have not known she was trying to off herself.”

“She wasn’t trying to _off herself,”_ said Angel indignantly. “She just wanted to get Giles back. She was a little unbalanced, sure, but grief can mess with people’s heads—”

Spike stared incredulously at him. Slowly, he said, “You thought she’d just gone off her rocker. You were trying to _humor_ her ‘cause you thought she was too mad to do any damage.”

“That wasn’t it,” said Angel, insulted by the assumption. “You’re not listening.”

“No, I don’t think _you’re_ listening,” said Spike. “That Calendar—I don’t know her at all, I’ll admit, but she doesn’t sound like the kind of lady who’d go mad with grief. Even if she wasn’t ready to admit what she was doing, you were in a position where you could’ve stopped her, and you _helped_ her instead. You watched her go off the deep end and only tried to stop her when she was halfway to the bottom.”

Angel looked slowly up at Spike, lost for words.

“Am I wrong?” said Spike simply. There was a smugness to his expression as he hopped off the bar stool and strode out.

Slowly, Angel looked back down at the empty glass, still stained with blood. It had felt so easy to let Jenny lay down the law—to let her tell him what was the right way to redeem himself for what he had done. He wondered if he would make the same mistake again, if similar circumstances arose. He wanted to think that he wouldn’t.

God, he hoped that he wouldn’t.

* * *

_Once upon a time, the stars returned to a dark, sleepy little town._

* * *

“Where do you want these boxes?” called Buffy across the classroom, hefting a box labeled _Lesson Plans_ in a very clear attempt to show off her strength in front of her girlfriend.

“Okay, don’t—don’t drop that,” said Jenny. “Just put it down on this side of the classroom. I can put them on one of the bookshelves, I think. Xander, can you grab a box?”

“Yeah, sure!” said Xander, tried to hop up from a chair, and grimaced in pain.

“Don’t let him carry more boxes,” said Rupert, giving Xander a gently reproving look. “He attempted to carry three to _prove his manliness_ and I am quite certain that he threw out his back.”

“I’m _eighteen,_ man,” said Xander. _“Old people_ throw out their back, not me! I’m young, I’m strong, I’m in my prime—”

“For the record,” said Rupert casually to Jenny, “I’ve never thrown out _my_ back.”

“It’s not a sexy look when a guy compares himself to one of my students,” said Jenny primly, but she was pretty sure that her mouth twitched at Rupert’s crestfallen expression.

Faith leaned over towards one of the half-open boxes, saw something inside it, and _grinned._ “Hey, witch!” she called across the classroom, ignoring the vaguely confused expressions of the other Scoobies. Theatrically, she pulled out the nameplate reading JENNY CALENDAR. “Is your name…” She flipped it over to squint at the bottom of the nameplate. “Made In China?”

Jenny loved her kid so much. “Oh my god, Umbra’s got me,” she said, falling theatrically back against the chalkboard. “Oh no!”

“The fact that they get along _this_ well is _so weird,”_ Cordelia was saying to Oz. “Have you seen _either of them_ get along well with _anyone?”_

“I resent that,” said Jenny. “I love all of you.” Belatedly, she realized what she’d said, turning _bright_ red. “Um, I mean—”

“Awwww!” Willow pulled herself up from one of the desks, weaving through boxes and half-assembled computers to hug Jenny. It was the easiest thing in the world for Jenny to hug Willow back. “We love you too, Ms. Calendar! We’re so glad you’re back.”

“I’m not,” said Cordelia. “Your substitute would let me skip class pretty much _all the time._ Now I have to—”

“What,” said Jenny dryly, “go to class?”

“I hear ya, sister,” agreed Faith, and held up the nameplate threateningly when Jenny gave her a look. “Begone, Made In China!”

“How can you two _possibly_ joke about something like that?” said Rupert, but it was more affectionate than anything.

“We’re here now, right?” said Jenny, and her smile softened as she looked at a giggling Faith. “Can’t help but be happy about it.”

* * *

_The path had been long and winding, the trees foreboding, the darkness closing in—_

* * *

“—but day is always gonna catch up to night _eventually,”_ said Jenny softly, carding her fingers through a sleeping Faith’s hair. She smiled. “Just like you did for me.”

* * *

_THE END._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is very much my baby, and here it feels extremely appropriate to thank anyone and everyone who picked it up and enjoyed it. it means the world to know that a handful of people were following this thing to its completion! thank you so much for going on this crazy fairytale journey with me.


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